Page 33 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 7
She looked lovelyin the shimmering light, hair loosely knotted and ready to fall at the slightest touch, lips pressed together just daring a man to attempt to breach them.
Bink took her bags from the footman.
“You’re ready to go then?”
She balked like a surly burro. He let her have room, but he blocked her access to the mail coach.
“I’ll have these stowed on your wagon. We’ll have time for breakfast before it’s readied.”
“I’m leaving on this coach.” Her voice trembled, and she cleared her throat. “Kindly give them back to the servant.”
Bink moved nearer. “No, Paulette,” he said softly. He was close enough to see fire building in her eyes. He’d seen a few grand Spanish tantrums before. This one wouldn’t stop him.
Still, he didn’t want to embarrass the girl.
“I’ve purchased the tickets. Iwillgo,” she hissed.
“The agent will give back your money. I’ll see to it.”
“I am not going to Cransdall. I am going to London.”
London. All the folk thought London held the key to everything. He, however, had seen the real London in the weeks he’d spent helping Hackwell search for his missing nephew. “Why London?”
“That is my affair.” She pressed her lips together and inhaled loudly. “One of my trustees is there.”
“One of them is on the Continent, I’m told.”
Her head snapped up and her eyes widened momentarily before compressing into a scowl.
“Nor is the other likely to be in town this time of year.”
“Curse you, and curse Bakeley.” She stamped her foot. “I willnotgo to Cransdall. You have noauthorityover me. You must give me my bags and move. The horses are harnessed. The coachman is taking his seat. Please.” She put out a hand and tried to push him away.
The group of men had turned to watch, and some laughed.
“You lot mind your business,” Bink said.
He shifted the bags to one hand and reached for her arm. She was trembling.
He would not see her humiliated. Nor would she travel to London in a public coach with only her maid.
“Stay now, lass. Don’t fret. If you must go to London, I will take you there.”
That evening, Bink knew he was in for it when his mount trotted into the stable yard at Greencastle. Hackwell’s stalwart horse, Chester, was here, and her ladyship’s new traveling carriage also. And from the number of strange cattle, they’d brought guests.
Devil take it, he’d only meant to stop the night here on the way to London—or longer if he could persuade the lady to stay, but Hackwell had come home early from the house party in Hertfordshire where he’d been politicking to get a new Poor Law in place. The man had taken to his Parliamentary duties like he’d taken to soldiering, every bill a battle campaign requiring a good deal of hobnobbing, usually with Lady Hackwell at his side. That sort of campaigning could never include Bink.
However, when Hackwell visited the rookeries, Bink went along. Even before their marriage, Lady Hackwell had been a strong voice for the denizens of those London neighborhoods.
Helping the poorest of the bastards was a worthy cause, and Bink would have liked to do more than just serve as a guard to the two or three of whichever lords Hackwell coaxed into going, trying to force some compassion into their coddled hearts.
As he dismounted, the head groom of Greencastle hobbled up to take the reins, exchanging greetings.
“When did his lordship return?” Bink asked the elderly man, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.
“Came back late on Saturday. Mary sent for ‘em as Master Rob took a fever, and the babe was a’sniffling.”
