The Gentleman's Quest (10 page)

She might well be right, but what good was that realization? Kit could hardly raise Malet from the dead.

“And you may never be able to face them,” Hero said, as though reading his thoughts. “But you might make do with those who are chasing us.”

Kit’s lips curled at the thought of some measure of retribution. He would gladly dole it out if he could get his hands on them, especially since they might well be one and the same.

As they approached Piketon, Hero watched for anything unusual. Although the town was on the way to London, she didn’t like veering from her goal, and she was leery of meeting up with anyone else. There were too many variables, too many chances for surprise.

But Hero could hardly refuse to stop unless she was prepared to quit Kit’s company, which she was not yet ready to do. The roads presented too many threats to the solitary young man she appeared to be, and though she had many skills, she did not overestimate her abilities.

Nor could she fool herself, Hero admitted bitterly. For no matter how many pragmatic excuses she might give, truth be told, she remained with Kit Marchant because she could not bear to part with him. He had proven to be just as dangerous as she first expected, wielding a power over her that Raven never had possessed.

Hero flushed at the memory she had tried most to banish: the night in the dim library when Kit had leaned over her, pressing his mouth to hers. He had taken her unawares, but like someone under a spell, Hero had let him, overwhelmed by the unexpected sensations, her innate caution abandoned in the heat of the moment.

If that was his sole effect upon her, Hero might have been able to dismiss the incident as a sudden weakness of her gender. But Kit Marchant was insidious, luring her with his gentle touch, his warmth, his humor…
Everything about him.

Nothing seemed to disconcert the man. He remained calm in every situation, keeping his head while he took appropriate action, all solid strength and reason. Indeed, he was so remarkable, that it was easy to see him as her rescuer, and not just from the storm. But Hero could not take shelter with him permanently.

Raven would not allow it, of course. But more importantly, she could not allow it. Her circumstances were such that she could never form an attachment to anyone, for the risks were too great. For everyone.

And when that knowledge threatened to overcome her, Hero told herself that Kit Marchant could not be what he claimed, that no one would help her unless they had their own motives for doing so.
Even a gentleman.

And yet…She thought of the tale he had told her last night in the closeness of the room they had shared. For a moment in the dark she glimpsed what she had seen at Oakfield, a man who was holding in anger and grief. And despite her best intentions, Hero had been affected.

No doubt, that was what he intended.
Hero frowned, uncertain, but unable to dismiss her suspicions. Perhaps someone else could accept Kit Marchant’s help and his explanations for it without question. But she had been raised differently, as a
pawn on Raven’s chessboard. His machinations had so altered her outlook that, even now, she wondered what part he played in all of this.

Hero shook her head. All she could do was move toward the goal and hope that she was on the right path. Nothing else mattered, she reminded herself. And yet, when Kit turned his head toward her, her pulse leapt, her gaze settling upon his handsome face with an eagerness she could not deny.

“This is the place,” he said, nodding toward a tall brick building ahead. A large sign proclaimed it the site of the Crowned Head, and belatedly, Hero scanned the area for anything suspicious. The inn was a large one, which meant that they could blend in with the crowd, but others could do so, as well.

Once inside the courtyard, they gave their horses over to a stable lad and walked among the bustle of grooms, postilions, coachmen and servants, all providing for the mail coaches and post chaises, horses and passengers.

Hero looked from the hurrying throng to Kit. “Where would he be?”

Kit shrugged in his usual casual manner, though Hero doubted he was as unconcerned as he appeared. “Let’s just look around.”

Although Hero felt a measure of safety in her disguise, she still kept a wary eye out, for Kit was recognizable and anyone with him would garner scrutiny. “Perhaps we should separate,” she suggested, but he gave her a black look. Was he being protective or laying a trap? Hero slowed her steps, hanging back just enough to avoid any sudden entanglements.

They had nearly completed a circle of the perimeter when Kit paused. “He’s here, all right, there by the door to the kitchens.”

Hero glanced in that direction and saw a stocky fellow, his cap slung low, lounging against the brick wall.

“I’ll keep my distance,” Hero said. “I’d rather he not see me dressed as I am.” At Kit’s nod, she sauntered toward a farm cart that was rolling to a stop nearby. “I’ll take care of this for you, sir,” she said to the driver, ducking her head.

“Molly usually doesn’t need tethering, lad. Just make sure no one steals my goods,” the farmer said. Dropping to the ground, he unloaded a large crate of apples, passing by Kit on his way into the kitchens.

Standing silently at the horse’s head, Hero kept her face turned away even as she inched closer to the man Kit had pointed out. Although loath to be recognized, she wanted to be privy to the conversation. And as long as the two didn’t whisper, she was in a good position to listen.

“Are you all right?” the man called Hob asked.

“Yes, and you?”

From the corner of her eye, Hero could see the fellow nod. “I left the coach in Burrell. Didn’t see a sign of the two men, sir, and began to think perhaps they were just a pair of thieves looking for something to steal.” He paused. “Then I went back to Oakfield. It appears they raised the stakes.”

“Are the authorities still looking to arrest me?”

“I don’t know. When I found out about the warrant, I didn’t stay around to be questioned. I sent word off
to the viscount and decided to come here. I didn’t know where else to catch up with you.”

“Obviously, they were not fooled by the switch in vehicles.”

“No, and they seem to mean business, sir. What of the young lady? Is she all right?”

“She’s safe,” Kit said.

“Really? And just where might that be?”

At the sound of the new voice, Hero did not turn, but kept her eyes resolutely fixed upon the ground.

“Here, now, put that away before someone gets hurt,” Hob said.

Only then did Hero glance surreptitiously toward Kit. He and Hob were pinned against the wall, facing a third man whose back was to her. Obviously, he had some weapon, a pistol or a knife that kept them at his mercy, and Hero’s heart hammered violently at the sight.

They had been threatened earlier, but that was before she had come to know Kit Marchant. In fact, the assault on the carriage seemed a lifetime ago, so far in the past that Hero could not believe she had once thought he played some part in it. Now, his life was in danger because of her, and Hero felt a horror that even the worst of Raven Hill’s frights had never induced. For an instant, she could do nothing except stare, stricken numb.

“Tell me where the girl is and no one will get hurt,” the man said, and his words finally roused Hero to action. Although she could not see his face, she heard the sneer in his voice, the falseness of his promise, and she knew that no one would come out of this unharmed by co-operating with him.

“And just in case you’re hesitating, my friend is across the courtyard, ready to join us,” he said. “He’s still smarting from the tumble off his horse, so if I were you, I wouldn’t annoy him.”

Tugging on her cap, Hero glanced up and saw that a tall man, hat shadowing his face, was approaching. She had no time to draw her own weapon, and the horse and cart stood between her and Kit. So she gave Molly a smack, sending the animal charging toward the doorway.

Kit and Hob moved out of the way, but the other fellow, obviously counting on his cohort to watch his back, was taken unawares. Knocked aside, he was soon being pummeled by Kit, who exhibited the kind of boxing men paid to witness. Hero had only a startled moment to admire his skill before she maneuvered the horse and its load backward, putting them between the kitchen and the approaching man, who had broken into a run. A quick shove to the cart sent it careening into him.

“Here, now, what’s going on?” The farmer, emerging from the kitchens, shouted in annoyance.

“He ran into your cart,” Hero called.

The farmer might have been more forgiving if the fallen man had apologized. Instead, the villain lurched to his feet and shoved the approaching farmer out of the way, intent upon reaching his companion. Not taking well to such treatment, the farmer tackled the tall man and an brawl ensued.

By the time Hero reached Kit, he had his assailant shoved against the wall, trying to get some answers. But even as Kit pressed him, the fellow sank to the
ground, unconscious. Seizing her opportunity, Hero darted forward and grabbed Kit’s arm. He swung round, ready to strike her, before recognition flashed in his dark eyes. Then he shouted for Hob, but a stream of men and boys were pouring from the stables to watch the fight, and they had pushed the coachman into the doorway.

Hob waved them away even as he backed into the kitchens, unhurt, and Hero pulled at Kit, dragging him beneath the cart. Exiting on the other side, they dodged the growing throng and ran to where their horses waited, making good their escape.

H
ero did not know her way around Piketon, so she followed Kit as he took a circuitous route through the narrow roads and lanes. Perhaps he was sighting from the sun because it soon became apparent that they were heading north, not east. She could only guess the change in direction was to escape their pursuers, who would be watching the road to London when they recovered.

But for once, Hero did not care where Kit led her. She was simply glad that he was unhurt and astride his mount, his familiar form only feet away from her. Although she had learned long ago how to hide her fright, her hands were still shaking after what they had been through.

Before her fear had always been for herself—for her safety, for her sanity, for her ability to evade a situation or to complete a task. But when Kit was threatened, Hero had felt a panic such as she had never known. And it lingered, making her cold and queasy.
She kept her gaze on his wide shoulders, as if he might suddenly disappear from the saddle.
From her life.

When Kit finally headed off the road toward a sluggish stream, Hero was grateful for the respite. She dismounted quickly, driven by an urgent need to touch her companion, as if the feel of his solid form might assure her of his safety. But she did not know how to approach him, and simply stood by, uncertain, while he watered the horses.

As she watched his graceful movements, Hero felt her throat thicken, as though clogged with some kind of violent emotion. But Kit’s casual demeanor was not conducive to dramatic declarations. Nor was she accustomed to making them.

Hero took refuge in a less personal observation. “Y-you handle your fists very well for a gentleman farmer,” she said. And he did. She had caught only glimpses, but she was certain that not every member of the landed gentry would be able to acquit himself so admirably in a fight.

“I know a bit of boxing. Just enough to protect myself from someone who doesn’t,” Kit said, in his usual modest fashion. Then he turned his head to flash her a grin. “You were right. I do feel better after thrashing one of them, though I wish I could have got some information from him first.”

Hero might have been gratified by his statement, but she was too horrified by the sight of blood on his mouth. “You’re hurt.”

He lifted a hand to finger his lip gingerly. “That’s to be expected, I suppose, but at least the fellow didn’t nick me with the blade he was brandishing.”

Hero felt the earth sway beneath her feet. Not only had Kit been in danger, but he had been injured. He was so capable that she had thought him invincible, and the realization that he was not filled her with alarm.

“Don’t tell me the imperturbable Miss Ingram swoons at the sight of blood?” he teased.

Hero shook her head as she searched for a handkerchief. It wasn’t the blood that made her uneasy, but the fact that it was Kit’s blood. The knowledge that he could have been knifed or killed terrified her, making her throat tight. She had blithely traveled with this man, using him just as she would any convenience to meet her ends. And she had justified her actions with the assumption that he was using her, as well.

But suddenly that wasn’t important anymore. What was important was Kit’s well-being, Hero realized, as she dipped the handkerchief in the cold water and moved toward him. Stepping close, she lifted the cloth to dab at the drop of red, but she was so near that memories of his kisses rushed over her, threatening her tenuous composure.

Hero’s trembling fingers slipped, her thumb brushed against his lower lip, and she thought she heard Kit groan. Had she hurt him? Abruptly, he had her wrist in a tight grip, and her gaze flew to his dark one. For a long moment she stood there, her pulse pounding under his touch, before he released her hand.

“Thank you for your quick actions,” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

Did he think her so heartless that she would abandon him to his attackers? Hero felt stricken.

“The men didn’t know you were there, dressed as you were. So you would have been wise to go since it was you they were after,” Kit said. “But as much as I wanted you to get away safely, I wondered how I’d ever find you again.”

In the silence that followed his admission, Hero could hear her heart thundering. The husky tone of Kit’s voice hinted at something that so closely echoed her own feelings that she was afraid to look into his eyes for fear he might see her thoughts. Yet she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move away, fighting the urge to touch him that had somehow turned into an urge to throw herself into his arms. And stay there.

Even in her current state, Hero knew that no good would come of that desire. Pursuing any sort of relationship was impossible because of what she was, where she had come from, and what her future might hold. That bitter reminder finally spurred her to turn away. All that she had left unsaid would have to remain so, for Kit’s sake and for her own.

It was time to resume their journey, to return to her quest and the life that had no place in it for anyone like Kit Marchant. Mounting, Hero watched him do the same, the emotional interlude seemingly forgotten. But her hands shook as she took the reins, proof that she could not so easily put it from her mind.

Kit frowned when the rain began. They’d had unaccountably good weather for days, so it was to be expected. But that didn’t make the cold pelting any more comfortable. Hero turned up the collar of her greatcoat and donned a wide-brimmed hat to replace
her cap, yet Kit couldn’t help worrying about her, and when they came upon a private home that had been converted into a country inn, he was more than ready to retire for the day in front of a blazing hearth.

Unfortunately, all inns were not created equal. Some had terrible food, abusive proprietors, poor servants or those who did little or stole or demanded coin for any service. Others had rooms that were dirty and bug-ridden or cold and damp, without even the meanest of comforts.

Kit should have recognized their fate when the private parlour where they ate boasted only a meagre fire, and their sumptuous meal consisted of hard potatoes, undone mutton and even less palatable fare. As they sipped their watery wine, Kit tried not to imagine what would have been awaiting him at Oakfield—good, simple food and a hot bath. Thoughts of the latter made him sigh into his plate.

“What is it?” Hero asked, looking up.

Kit shook his head. She must be chilled to the bone, but had not complained at all, so how could he voice his grievances?

“Are you feeling all right? How is your lip?”

Was that concern that shadowed her face? Kit grinned at the thought and touched his mouth gingerly. “I’m all right.”

And he was. Despite the discomforts, Kit realized that the dismals and moodiness that had plagued him after the fire were gone, banished perhaps by time or the pummeling he had given his assailant or Hero herself. But now that he felt a bit like his old self, Kit was ready for a little less excitement. And the home
he had viewed so dimly just a week ago now seemed a veritable haven, where he could make a life for himself—if he had someone like Hero to join him there.

The thought brought Kit’s attention back to his companion, and he frowned at the damp spots on her sleeves. “If you’re finished, we should get you out of those wet clothes,” he said. The words came out differently than he intended, and Kit pushed away from the table rather than face Hero’s reaction. He walked to the small window, where daylight was fading into darkness, but the thrumming of the rain continued.

“I don’t want you catching a chill,” he explained, something seizing within him at the notion.

“I’m very hardy,” Hero said in a wry tone.

Kit turned round to look at her. Certainly, she was taller than most women and seemingly capable of just about any task, but that didn’t mean she could not be felled by the illnesses that struck everyone. “Perhaps we should think about taking a coach.”

“Passengers on the stage have been known to die from exposure,” Hero stated baldly.

“Those on the outside, yes, but I was thinking of hiring a coach, so we could be out of the weather.”

“What of the horses?” she said. “And I don’t like the idea of being dependent upon anyone else.”

Kit frowned. Nothing except their own mounts would give them the ability to escape quickly when necessary, as well as to go about their business without anyone taking note of them or their whereabouts, an important consideration after what had happened at Piketon.

“All right, but if the weather gets too bad, we’ll stop for a while,” Kit said.

“The sooner we get to London, the sooner we can find the Mallory and foil our pursuers,” Hero argued.

Kit felt a twinge of annoyance at her eagerness to end the journey, but he pushed it aside. Right now he had more pressing concerns, and there was something that neither one of them had mentioned.

“The men in Piketon weren’t wearing livery,” Kit said. Although he’d never believed there was a connection between their pursuers and the Duke of Montford’s staff, still he had to admit that such men would be recognizable.

“Maybe they took off their livery, the better to avoid notice.”

Kit snorted, unconvinced.

“Or maybe the men in livery are waiting outside.”

Kit would have laughed if she hadn’t been so serious. Indeed, her calm expression was so alarming that he posed the question even though he knew he would receive no answer.

“Just how many people do you think are chasing us?”

Hero breathed in the moldy odor of the small room and sighed. Although they had asked for two beds, there was only one, and the paltry fire in the small grate produced little warmth. Circumstances had forced her into worse places, but not often. Yet what else could they do unless they were willing to travel by night in the rain?

While Kit went out to call for a chambermaid, Hero
took his advice and quickly changed her breeches and socks. She had no other coat, so hung it up as best she could, though the room’s dampness boded ill for anything drying during the night, especially two greatcoats and a variety of lesser garments.

She had just finished dressing when Kit returned with a belligerent girl who obviously did not intend to be of much help. She carried a poker with which she stirred the fire, but she did not add any wood until Kit promised her good coin. And even then, the room did not heat.

It was a gloomy night, and Hero might have been excused for being sunk in the dismals. But instead, she felt as though something hard inside of her had crumbled, freeing her from its grip. And even the grim accommodations could not dispel the odd sense of lightness in her chest.

They were alive and well and together for now, and perhaps that was enough, Hero thought. Glancing surreptitiously at her companion, she studied his mouth, where his beautiful lower lip was cracked. Fighting back the urge to touch it, she contented herself with helping him off with his coat.

“Did you change your clothes?” he asked, and his protective manner warmed Hero far more than the wretched blaze. No one had ever cared for her welfare, and no matter what the reason behind his concern, she delighted in it.

At her nod, he began rummaging through his own pack. “Better get into bed then. It’s got to be warmer in than out, and I don’t want you catching a chill.”

Hero didn’t pause to wonder just why he cared, but
enjoyed the proof that he did and crawled under the covers, trying not to think about the general cleanliness of the place. What she wouldn’t give for a bath. Instead of curling up to sleep as she usually did, she turned over, peeking out at Kit, who was sitting on the lone spindle chair and pulling off his boots.

Hero knew she should look away, but after what had happened in Piketon, she found it difficult to let the man out of her sight. And her view of him in his shirtsleeves, his wide shoulders straining, was arresting. As she watched, he set his boots aside and then stripped off his socks, and there was something about the sight of his bare feet that made her heart trip.

When he covered them with a dry pair of socks, Hero wondered if he would change his breeches, as well. And although she flushed at the thought, she didn’t look away when he stood and turned his back to her. He peeled away the buckskin to reveal a brief white garment that clung to his behind and thighs hard with muscle before donning another pair.

They had been sleeping in their clothes, but Hero wondered what he wore when alone. A nightshirt? Nothing at all? Hero stifled a bubble of hysterical laughter at questions that only a week ago would have been unthinkable.

Kit must have heard something because he paused in his circuit of the room, perhaps looking for the driest bit of floor. “What?” he asked.

Without pausing to consider the reckless thought that came to mind, Hero moved over and threw back the blankets. “Here,” she said. “As you pointed out, it’s the only warm place.”

For once, the easygoing Kit appeared startled. “No, I’ll be fine in front of the fire.”

Hero shook her head. “It’s the only sensible solution.”

Kit looked right at her, that dark and dangerous glint in his eyes. “I don’t think sharing a bed is a good idea.”

Hero shivered at his low tone, husky with promise, and she knew she was on treacherous ground. She had no business encouraging any closeness between them, but neither did she want him to lie freezing upon the filthy floor.

“Huddling together might be the only way we both fend off illness,” Hero said. “And I don’t see a problem because, as you so often point out, you are a gentleman.”

Kit’s mouth twisted at the reminder, and he put a hand to his split lip, with a grimace. “Even a gentleman has his limits.”

Hero shivered again at the stark admission. Although they were both fully clothed, something in Kit’s gaze hinted at a different arrangement, should he join her. And her heart thundered in response. For one wild moment, Hero wanted nothing more than to give this man her all, to deny him nothing.

And then? All actions had consequences, and it was the knowledge of what they might be that kept Hero from succumbing to the temptation Kit Marchant presented. Swallowing a groan, she pulled the covers over her head and turned to face the wall, her lightened spirits abruptly dimmed.