Page 25 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
He was not under orders now, not really. His business at home would just have to wait. Hackwell would understand, and if he didn’t, his lady most certainly would.
“We’re going back and getting what’s yours.” He circled his hands at her so-tiny waist and hauled her up onto his horse.
“What—” she gasped and clung to the horse’s mane.
Her long skirts rode up, revealing a nicely turned ankle and calf, and the anger inside him stirred to something more feral.
That comely ankle and calf could be his, to look at, to touch. He had only to press her a bit. He inwardly shook himself.
“Hold on, miss.”
He swung the maid up next, eliciting a shriek.
“Quiet now, Miss Mabel. You’ll startle the horse.” Though he’d doubt much would shake this doddering old eunuch. When his own mount had stumbled in last night’s violent rain, this gelding had been the only saddle-horse left at the inn where they’d sought help. “He’s a sweet enough goer. If you’ll pull up your skirts you may sit astride with more comfort, and no one’s the wiser. We’ll take you down before anyone can see.”
The maid hiked up her skirt and scooted around her mistress’s grumping.
“Are we going back then?” Miss Heardwyn’s voice, now that she’d found it, was laced with danger.
“Aye.” Bink took the gelding’s reins and led him off.
“And then what, Mr. Gibson?” Her voice trembled with suppressed fury.
He looked straight ahead, through the overhanging trees hedging the fields.
Then I shall introduce Mr. Cummings to my fists.
“We’ll get your things, then.”
The horse stumbled and Mabel gasped again.
“Don’t worry ladies. Just hold on.”
There wasnothing untoward about Mr. Gibson’s touch when he lifted Paulette down from the mount, yet the strength of his hands seared her and incited a burn in her cheeks.
She bent and straightened her skirts, and more blood rushed, making her dizzy. Mabel gasped when the horse side-stepped and prattled about being too heavy. Mr. Gibson grunted—Mabel was no light-weight—and muttered a polite reassurance.
When she’d straightened herself and had the opportunity to look, Mr. Gibson was frowning.
No. Not frowning. Frowning implied some minor disturbance. A deep line creased his set-in-stone forehead, running between his eyes like a water-carved cliff she’d once seen in an illustration, and tension radiated off him like the rays off the sun, sending some of its heat her way.
Mabel was right—hewasa handsome man. He bent and checked the horse over, the tight curve of his buttocks inspiring more blushes, and she imagined his back muscles bunching and moving under his tightly fitted jacket as he tested the girth and the leather.
He went to a bag strapped to the saddle and pulled out a pistol.
Her heart soared with hope, even as she knew she was on the brink of something unknowable. She wanted her home back, and yet she didn’t. The future was a black yawning hole, but with any luck, Mr. Gibson would shoot Mr. Cummings and she’d have that tiny bit of reckoning.
“Surely it won’t come to pistols, sir,” Mabel said in a small voice.
“No, surely it won’t,” he said carefully. “But one can never be absolutely sure with a thief. Are you ready, ladies?”
Dismay overtookher in the small yard. Her lap desk sat haphazardly in the wagon, leaning against a crate. Cummings’ man had yanked it from her, and when she’d slapped him, well…
She took a breath. Cummings had raised a hand to her.That, she would never forget. That, she would find a way to avenge.
Two other men, farmers who leased from Mr. Cummings, met her eyes and looked away quickly.
Mr. Gibson handed the reins to Mabel. “Where is Cummings?” he asked.
