Page 6 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Her teeth chattered, even as her face burned. Shewasin a hurry, and she’d wasted a great deal of time. And she didn’t know who he might know. He might know the man she was visiting. He might know Mr. Cummings, the dog cart’s owner, and no friend to the man at Paulette’s destination. She didn’t want her journey talked of, not now. And she didn’t want this man telling tales about fondling her backside.
He leveled a long look at her, eyes glittering in the sharp light like the Baltic amber earrings she’d seen on a visiting lady at services one Easter Sunday.
Perhaps their circumstances called for an introduction, but it was wiser to remain anonymous. And he hadn’t offered his name either.
She held herself tight on a shiver. No, she had no need for niceties. She had serious business ahead.
He tipped his hat. “Very well, miss. I shall go ahead then, and flush out any highwaymen who are likely to bother you ladies.”
“Foolish girl,” Mrs. Everly said. “A gentleman’s protection is not to be dismissed so readily.”
“If heisa gentleman,” Paulette said, watching his departing back. “And highwaymen won’t bother three poor women like us. And what could one man do against an armed attacker?”
“That man could do something,” Mabel said. “I’d wager he has a pistol somewhere or a knife stuck in one of them boots. Aye, and those hands could make great big fists. And, that jaw—he could crack chestnuts with it. The man can take a punch, and give back in kind. And strong. The way he—”
“Leave it.”
Mabel’s shoulders were shaking. Shewouldthink it was funny, but dear God—Mrs. Everly didn’t need to hear the details of her mauling. The whole county would know.
She set Horace in motion.
“Did you get his name, Polly?” Mabel asked.
Mabel found something attractive in almost every man. Her maid needed to find a husband, instead of flirting with every stable boy, shop man, and farmer she met.
“He’s no-one I want to know, Mabel.”
“He looks prosperous enough,” Mrs. Everly said. “And he did seem interested.”
Mrs. Everly hadn’t been much inclined to the idea of Paulette marrying, at least not until her own sister’s husband had passed a few weeks before.
She’d been with Paulette as companion and chaperone since shortly after Paulette’s mother’s death. Shaldon’s heir, Lord Bakeley, had sent his poor relation to Ferndale Cottage, in lieu of inviting her to reside at Cransdall after her husband’s death.
If the lady wanted to keep the small pension Bakeley paid her, she’d stay until Paulette married. And after that…well, Mrs. Everly would have been homeless again. Except that now she’d have a home with her widowed sister.
Paulette was of age now, but she hadn’t had the heart to kick the older woman out. And, not to mention, if she were to do that, she might find her own self evicted from Ferndale Cottage, since it was one of Lord Shaldon’s properties.
Blast it all, she needed her own money.
“Whether he’s interested is neither here nor there.” She flicked the reins for Horace to move faster. “BecauseIam not.”
She would reach Cransdall soon and put all thoughts of the tall stranger behind her. With any luck, she’d never see him again.
Bink listenedfor the faint thuds and scrapes, the rattles and crunches behind him. The girl might be a shrew, but he’d go to her aid, if need be. This road was desolate, just the way the owner wanted it, and he wouldn’t leave three women alone, at least not until he reached his own destination.
She had no man in her life, surely, to set off all alone like that.
Unless she was running away.
No. She might run with the maid, but not with the old windbag. He would have to ask Bakeley about her.
Soon enough a stone wall ran beside him, its layer of thick moss going grey in the dimming light. An ornate opening rose from the vegetation, the iron gates thrown open and surprisingly unguarded. The old Spy Lord truly had given up.
Two wheel ruts sliced turning lines in the damp verge. There’d been traffic along here recently. Most likely a physician had been called.
Bink halted and took a long breath. Lavender trickled into his senses. He grasped the reins with prickling hands, took deep breaths against the squeeze in his chest, and swallowed a laugh. He’d never been a swooner, not even after a battle. He was a man, a great stupid lout of one and thirty, not that bloody hopeful boy who’d passed here before, all wound up inside.
The faint rattle of wheels still reached him from much further back, out of sight. If the ladies weren’t locals, there’d be an inn in the village, and if not, they could turn back and seek shelter at Cransdall. In fact, he’d send one of the grooms to make sure of it.
