Gail Eastwood (4 page)

He really had been very helpful. She didn’t know how she would have managed this morning if he had not come along. Already he had dispatched two stable hands to retrieve their baggage; he had dealt with the inevitable questions of their welcoming committee and had seen that Gilbey’s needs were tended. Even now he was deep in conversation with the innkeeper again. But in the midst of her newfound appreciation, something was nagging her. How was it that Brinton just happened to be the first one to come along after the robbery?

Lost in this thought, Gillian hardly noticed that most of the crowd in the room had slipped out until she suddenly became aware of Brinton’s hazel gaze upon her. For a moment she could not look away, staring back fully into the myriad smoky colors she found there. Her pulse quickened, and flustered, she finally pulled her eyes to her lap where they belonged.

What must he think of her?
Brazen and forward must surely head the list by now, not to mention vulgar
. She felt a warm flush creep up her cheeks. Had he been near enough in the street to have heard her shocking language? She had always enjoyed being something of a hoyden, but suddenly her pride in not being “missish” was curiously dampened.

“It is fortunate that neither of you was hurt more seriously,” Brinton said, frowning. “I cannot fathom what you thought you would do out there in the murk at this early hour!” He shot a reproachful glance at Gillian.

She bristled in response, quite forgetting the fluttering butterflies she had been feeling moments before. “We thought we would catch our coach, if it is any business of yours!”

“I suppose it never occurred to you that any team venturing out so early in this would break their necks before it got light enough to find the road?”

He was scolding her like a father, and she resented it. What right had he? Yet what could she say? That she was eager to get away from him? That they were fearful of pursuit and distrustful of his assistance? That her reactions to him puzzled and frightened her? “We have urgent business,” she said defensively. “We need to be on our way as soon as possible.”

To her relief, he did not press the subject further.

“I have ordered some breakfast brought to you,” he said simply.

She felt his eyes still on her, although she knew he was addressing her brother as well.

“I trust you will excuse me while I repair to our former quarters. Mr. Spelling may have awakened by now, and besides, I really must attempt to make a more presentable appearance.”

Gillian still did not trust him, but the prying eyes of the other inn patrons who might return at any moment seemed an even greater threat than he was.

Perhaps her face betrayed her misgivings, for he smiled and added, “I have also made arrangements that you are not to be disturbed.” With a bow he picked up his hat and left them.

A maid brought them a large Staffordshire basin and pitcher, soap, and towels. Not long after, the innkeeper delivered breakfast to the twins himself. No one else attempted to join them in the coffee room.

As the man set the dishes before them, he gave Gillian a calculating look. “Your friend the earl seems very ready to put himself out for you,” he commented. “There’s not many as would go so far.”

Gillian and Gilbey exchanged startled glances. An earl? Brinton had never said he was an earl. Then again, they had never asked about his title, no more than they had volunteered their own identities. Gillian flushed to her ear tips when she thought of the suspicions she had harbored. Yet a little voice in the back of her mind said ungraciously that even an earl could fall from the right path.

“You’re lucky his lordship went after you,” the man continued. “There’s no one abroad in this soup so early that’s up to any good.” His expression made it clear that he included them in this unwholesome group.

Gillian thought she might scream if she heard one more reference to their foolhardiness in venturing out. She glared at the innkeeper while Gilbey thanked him curtly in dismissal.

“Well! We have certainly made a fine impression on him,” Gilbey commented. “He thinks we are no better than the footpads who accosted us!”

Gillian had fallen ravenously upon the profferred breakfast and was in the act of passing a plate of thickly buttered toast to Gilbey. She set the plate down abruptly.

“We have managed to make an impression of some sort on nearly everyone we have met,” she said sharply. “I had so hoped we could just pass along our way, unnoticed and untraceable.” Anxiety made her voice husky as she asked, “Do you think Uncle William could track us to Taunton?”

Gilbey sighed. “Nothing would please me better than to set your mind at ease, Gillie, but in truth I have no more idea than you. We did our best not to leave a clear trail. Perhaps he isn’t even trying to come after us.”

“You know how set he was that I should marry Lord Grassington. We appealed to both of them, and what good did that do? Uncle William flew even higher into the boughs, and the earl wouldn’t even receive you. If only we could have learned the reason! Oh, I’ve no doubt that Uncle will be after us.”

She eyed her brother doubtfully. She had no wish to add to his discomfort, but her impatience with their delayed departure was difficult to conceal. “Does your knee still pain you? Is there any chance that you could walk on it today?” Before he could protest, she explained, “I just thought if we could take to the footpaths, no one at all would know where we had gone!”

Gilbey bit his lip. “Perhaps if I can just rest it a little while longer. But what about Lord Brinton?”

Gillian’s earlier charity with the aggravating earl had quite disappeared. “He returned the purse we left for him, did he not?”

“Yes, He did not want us to pay for his hospitality.”

“Well, then. We are quits with him. As far as I am concerned, the sooner we are far away from him, the better.”

***

Upstairs, Brinton squinted into the small shaving mirror and stroked the razor carefully under his chin. “It goes without saying there’s not a conveyance left to be hired anywhere in this town today,” he said to Archie, swishing the blade in the basin and wiping it on the cloth provided.

Spelling was tucking his shirt into his tight-fitting pantaloons and did not reply. A tray of partially eaten breakfast perched on the bed beside him. The smell of the thick ham slices mingled with the scent of shaving soap.

“They could probably still catch their coach at The George,” the earl continued, thinking aloud. “They must be listed on the waybill, and the agent might remember them. But they will still be short of funds for tips and meals if they are going any distance.” It occurred to him that he might at least learn the young pair’s destination if he offered to loan them the money.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Archie interrupted. “You have your own vehicle here, and you have horses bespoken for today. Why not offer to convey them yourself?” He aimed an uncharacteristically wicked grin at his friend.

Rafferty paused before answering. “Assisting runaways is a pretty serious business,” he began, but even as he spoke he knew he liked Archie’s idea. What better way could there be to prove his bet? Beyond all else, the very adventure of it appealed to him.

On the other hand, he knew he should do nothing more to encourage the connection. He had felt the spark of desire the girl triggered in him as he had watched her sip her coffee. When she had looked up into his eyes, he had barely managed to stop himself from going to her. Instead, he had spoken to her like an insensitive dolt, just because he was angry at the thieves and dismayed by what could have happened to her.

“What about you, Arch? What about the race?” He felt like a sinking swimmer grasping at sticks.

“Oh, pish,” said Archie. “Don’t leave till after the race! As for me, I’ll just go home after. S’posed to head up to London in a few days, anyway. I’ll see you there.”

“My curricle seats only two,” Rafferty protested weakly.

Archie laughed. “You know you want to do it. Indulge yourself. I know you want to spend more time with her. Maybe they’ll let you be best man at the wedding!”

Brinton gave up the struggle. “All right, I will do it. I shall prove to you yet this is not about marriage. You’ll not get your hands on my Tristan so easily! Perhaps the lad can ride on the tiger’s perch.”

Chapter Four

The trio in the curricle had passed nothing in the fog for quite a few minutes. After miles broken by occasional lights and other signs of habitation, the emptiness of the barely visible landscape was eerie.

“We have not mistaken the way, have we?” asked Gillian with more than a trace of anxiety in her voice.

Brinton sighed and handed the ribbons over to her. He had discovered soon after setting out that she had not the slightest fear of handling them. Clearly, her confidence in his own abilities was far less certain. He shook his head as he clambered down from the curricle to look for the signpost that would reassure his passengers. This attempt to travel in the morning fog was a far greater folly than he had thought to take part in.

When they had first set out, he had not been able to see more than a few feet ahead of the horses. The fog had surrounded them like a wet cocoon, glistening in beads on the horses’ broad rumps and dripping from their harness. He had needed to walk along at their heads, watching for unseen obstacles and listening for the occasional farm cart that would suddenly loom before them out of the gloom. He glanced down at his boots, encrusted beyond repair with red Taunton mud. At least under his care the carriage had suffered no mishap.

The girl had chafed at their slow progress, he knew, although she had made an effort to hide it. He had been able to observe her in odd moments when the fog lifted slightly, allowing him to climb back up beside her. Underneath her nervous anxiety he thought she was afraid. He suspected she had been awake all night, for he could see the shadows of fatigue under her eyes.

How he wished she would look at him with trust instead of the guarded expression that was always in those beautiful eyes! Miss Kendall, she had said he might call her, back at the inn. She and the lad had claimed to be cousins, both by the same name. He was not convinced, however. They had seemed so tentative. They hadn’t even agreed on their destination when he had asked it.

“I may be in a position to offer you some further assistance,” he had said earlier after rejoining them in the coffee room at the Ram’s Head. He had felt far more confident then, freshly shaved, fed, and attired in a handsome ensemble that hadn’t been slept in.

“You have done quite enough for us already,
my lord
,” the girl had responded, without sounding the least bit grateful.

“We are already greatly in your debt, my lord,” the lad had said with far more sincerity.

“I have at my disposal a curricle and pair,” Brinton had continued smoothly, refusing to admit that the girl’s attitude wounded him. “But before I offer you conveyance, I must inquire where your coach would have delivered you?”

“Brist—”

“Gloucester.”

The two had looked sheepishly at each other, then the girl had turned to Brinton with a determined toss of her head.

“North,” she had said in a tone that defied argument.

Brinton had carefully schooled his features to reveal neither surprise, skepticism, nor amusement. “It happens I have business that would not take me too far out of the way to accomodate you,” he had responded. Somehow he had agreed not only to take the couple part of their way north, but to leave this very morning, while the fog was still virtually impenetrable.

Forgoing the races left him with extra money in his purse and an unfulfilled mission to acquire some prime horseflesh. Archie would let him know what he missed in Taunton. If he recollected rightly, Worcester’s spring cattle fair was on Monday. Perhaps he would go there.

Brinton found the road marker at last and went through the motions of checking it. “We are only two miles from Bridgwater,” he said, returning to the carriage, “
If
you have enough faith at least in my ability to read signposts.”

He couldn’t resist darting a quick glance at the girl. She had the grace to blush at his remark, and the heightened color in her cheeks set off her eyes. Those eyes were stirring up the devil in him. He quickly reclaimed his seat and the ribbons.

Riding next to her was distracting, he had to admit. They both seemed to be making an excruciating effort not to touch each other—preserving the tiny space between them at all costs. This was difficult as they navigated the various dips and curves in the road that often came upon them quite suddenly in the fog.

Rafferty wondered impishly what she would do if he relaxed and allowed his thigh to press against hers. Would she not jump like a frightened rabbit? Perhaps it would distract her from her other fears and worries, but he stifled his urge to do it. Instead, he fixed his gaze straight ahead on the narrow tunnel of lane visible between the hedgerows.

“If it is any comfort to you, no one else on the road this morning could be making any faster progress than we are,” he said. He could think of no other comfort to offer her, short of throwing down the reins and pulling her into a strong, warm, protective embrace.

Gillian heard Brinton’s reassurance through a brain numb with fatigue. Her sleepless night combined with her anxiety over her uncle’s pursuit and the frustration of their slow rate of travel had taxed her nerves to their limit. The added stimulus of dealing with Brinton’s close presence had pushed her over the edge into her own personal fog of exhaustion.

She had not wanted to accept Brinton’s offer back at the Ram’s Head. She hated being in the position of requiring his aid yet again. He had looked elegant and aloof once more, neatly groomed and clad in immaculate cream-colored pantaloons and a bottle-green riding coat. He had looked every inch an earl, and she still did not trust him.

Still, what alternatives had they? They had no funds to hire their own transport, even if there had been some available. They dared not reveal who they were, nor send home for more funds. Staying longer in Taunton would have been like the hare sitting still for the poacher to set his trap. Goaded by desperation, she had convinced the earl to set off at once, only to creep along at no better pace than a cautious walk.

The fog had enveloped them in a ghostly world limited to sound and sensation. The motion of the carriage and the constant creak of the harness formed a counterpoint to the rhythm of the horses’ steady breathing. The sound of the animals’ plodding steps was occasionally muffled by sodden drifts of spent apple blossoms, blown from trees unseen beyond the hedgerows, filling the air with their scent.

Lulled by the soporific effect of the rhythms on her tired brain, Gillian kept starting to drift into sleep. She caught herself slumping against the leather squabs, leaning perilously close to Brinton. She hastily pulled herself upright, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Two more miles to Bridgwater?
She tried to summon back her fear or frustration to keep her awake, but they seemed to have deserted her. Moments later, Gillian was asleep, resting securely against Brinton’s shoulder.

***

The isolation in which they traveled the last miles to Bridgwater began to break as the trio drew nearer the town. Brinton knew he must awaken Gillian, much as he might regret doing so. Sleeping, she looked like an angel, stirring curiously protective and noble feelings within him. A lock of hair had escaped her cap to rest wetly against his arm, but he was content to let it stay. He marveled at the sweep of her long lashes against her pale cheeks.

Driving had been more challenging with her slight weight against him, but he had enjoyed the closeness, no matter how unintended it was. He guessed she would be angry when she awoke—angry at herself and embarrassed. Perhaps he could forestall that if he could find an inn right away. The need for action would rob her of the opportunity to fume at him.

Even in the fog Bridgwater appeared to be a substantial town with a fine, wide central street. The road took them past the church in St. Mary’s Street where the Duke of Monmouth had looked out toward Sedgemoor and failed to foresee his own doom. Beyond the church fashionable houses lined the street and the side roads as well. One was advertising itself as “The Monmouth Arms.” Gratefully, Rafferty turned his horses into the stable yard and gave Gillian a gentle shake.

“Awake, Sleeping Beauty. Your castle awaits.” When he saw her begin to stir, he addressed her in a firmer tone of voice. “Miss Kendall,” he began, “we will stop here briefly to rest and dry ourselves.”

Gillian straightened up and opened luminous eyes still clouded with sleep. The earl watched in amusement as realization of what had happened dawned on them and they then focused sharply on him. Gillian opened her mouth to protest, but the earl held up his hand.

“Think of your faithful cousin, riding in the back, with no doubt the greatest discomfort. We will not stay long. But for pity’s sake, do not talk, do not remove your cap, and above all, do not look anyone in the eye—I mean, anyone.” Especially the last, he said to himself, thinking of his own first meeting with her. If she were discovered now, traveling like this, the scandal would be beyond disastrous.

“Shall I stay in the stables with the horses, my lord?” The withering look she directed at him banished any remaining traces of the sleeping angel in his mind’s eye.

“And leave you to your own mischief while we warm ourselves inside by the fire? I think not.” Brinton tossed the reins to the stable hand who met them and clambered down. Let her think he didn’t trust her. Had she no idea of the trouble she might find among the rough characters who hung about the stables? He only hoped she had sense enough to jump down by herself in a carefree fashion. They would all three of them have to be very careful to preserve appearances while they stopped here.

Gillian choked back her irritation at Brinton’s high-handedness and clambered nimbly down from the curricle. It was quite unfair, she thought, how easily one could move about in breeches, even with an enveloping travel cloak.

She watched Brinton help her thoroughly soaked twin descend from the back of the curricle, Limp, wet blond hair hung over Gilbey’s forehead and dripped onto his nose. Stiff and groaning, he looked truly pathetic, and she could not deny that it was her fault. She had shown very little gratitude for his loyalty and care thus far, she thought guiltily. Resolving to do better, she moved to her brother’s side, offering a supporting arm.

Brinton quickly took a place at Gilbey’s other side. Gillian made certain her arm was positioned where it would not touch the earl’s, and she refused to recognize the frisson of disappointment she felt when he made no effort to alter the arrangement. With Gilbey limping badly, the trio crossed the courtyard and entered the inn.

They were in a central hallway that spanned the converted house from front to back. Its highly polished floor and pastel walls bespoke a standard of elegance still maintained despite the dwelling’s lowered status. A graceful curved stairway with an elaborate iron railing began its ascent off to one side. Several doorways ornamented with fluted columns and classical pediments opened onto rooms that appeared for the most part to be empty.

“Not overbusy, I see,” Brinton remarked with a note of satisfaction as the innkeeper and a porter appeared.

Gillian kept her eyes on the floor and said nothing.

“Aye, sir. ’Tis a terrible morning to be abroad, as you’ve no doubt seen.” The man regarded them with obvious curiosity. He was thin and stoop-shouldered, with a small pair of spectacles on the end of his nose that gave him the look of a schoolmaster.

He produced the ledger book, and as the earl signed with a flourish, a huge smile lit his face. “We are honored to have your custom, my lord,” he said with a deep bow. Gillian was afraid he would actually grovel.

Brinton ordered a private parlor with an adjoining room and was assured that there would be only a few minutes’ wait. In the meantime his party would be served hot cider by the fire in the blue salon. Before the innkeeper left, he looked dubiously at Gilbey. “Is there anything else you require?”

“This gentleman was injured in an attack by footpads this morning in Taunton,” Brinton said. “I believe his comfort would be vastly improved by a soak in a warm bath.”

Gillian could not help lifting her gaze. She valiantly restrained her urge to kick Brinton. Their misfortune was just the sort of news loved by fireside gossips and could spread from this inn all over Somerset. Meanwhile, soaking her brother in a bath would delay them disastrously.

The innkeeper’s eyebrows shot up comically, but he refrained from comment. “Certainly, my lord.” He shepherded the travelers into one of the rooms off the hallway, shaking his head sympathetically. “I can have your wet garments spread in the other room to dry, my lord. And did you wish the young lad to be shown to the kitchen?”

Gillian’s mouth dropped open, and she had to make a conscious effort to close it again. The man thought she was a servant! It was beyond too much.

Brinton had a devilish smile on his face as he replied, “That will not be necessary, thank you.” The earl was already helping Gilbey remove his greatcoat so he might sink down onto the sofa pulled close by the fire. “The boy can stay and assist us with our wet things.”

Gillian directed an accusing glare at Brinton as soon as the innkeeper was gone. “That fellow thinks I am your servant,” she burst out, “and you deliberately encouraged him!”

Rafferty chuckled. “So I did. That does not sit well with you, does it? But think of this—who pays attention to other people’s servants? If you are so determined to pass yourself off as a lad, you had best do all you can to avoid scrutiny. I suggest you adopt the role while we are here.” He gave Gillian a sidelong glance and raised one dark eyebrow mischievously. “You may begin by removing my cloak.”

“I will do no such thing,” Gillian fumed. Her voice was tight with the effort not to shout. “There is no need for me to adopt such a charade when we are not in the company of others.”

The rattle of a tray in the passage warned Gillian to say no more. Moments later a woman appeared, bearing the promised tankards of steaming, fragrant cider.

If the innkeeper looked like a schoolmaster, then this round woman looked for all the world like someone’s cherished nanny. She beamed a delightfully benign smile on the gathered company.