Page 44 of The Agent and the Outlaw
“Who?”
“That man! The one you wereflirtingwith just outside the gate,” I accused. I was in no mood for her outrageous denials.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she shrugged. “Perhaps you’re overtired, and your eyes are playing tricks on you. I’d recommend a nap and a light meal. I saw a bakery just down the street if you’re feeling peckish. I certainly am! Ooh, do you think they’ll have any meat pies?”
“Charlotte.” I grabbed her arm and stared hard into her eyes.
She stared back at me, the very portrait of innocence. If I didn’t know her better, I’d have thought she was right, and I’d been mistaken. The only thing that stopped me was a strange glint in her eyes—a flash of red I almost missed. Something was off and I felt a rising sense of panic.
“Where have you been? Who was that man? What were you doing outside the gate at this hour? It’s barely sunrise! Do you realize you could have met thebêtesout there on your own?”
The forced innocence on her face twisted into irritation. Rather than answer my questions, she pushed past me and stormed down the street, muttering darkly.
“Honestly, Antoine, I don’t have to answer a single one of your damn questions! Leave me in peace, for pity’s sake!”
I stood in the middle of the street for a moment, staring at the bedraggled hem of her dress as it whipped around her feet.
That went well,I thought to myself. My anger spent, I felt a wash of acute embarrassment at my frustrated tirade. I contemplated my next move.Should I go after her? Should I chase down the man outside the gate? Should I return to the inn, pack my things, jump on Tartuffe, and ride away, never to see the infuriating woman again?
Probably.
Only I knew I wouldn’t. Whatever complicated feelings I now harbored for Charlotte, I could at least acknowledge that my honor compelled me to ensure her safety—even if it was at the expense of my own.But how can I if she won’t let me? She won’t even tell me the truth.I frowned. I was no good with women—especially aristocratic women. In their company, I often found myself perplexed by their behavior and tongue-tied around their flirtations.
I groaned in exasperation and stomped after her, splattering mud everywhere in my ire.
“Watch what you’re doing, you oaf!”
I turned to see a thick lout of a man wiping mud from his face and shirt.Merde.The last thing I wanted was trouble. We were meant to be laying low.
“Apologies,” I grumbled. “I did not see you there.”
“Like hell,” the man said. “You ruined my clothes!”
I gave him a once over. His clothes were so filthy, it was impossible to distinguish one patch of mud from another.
I gritted my teeth. “As I said,” I repeated. “My apologies.” I reached into my coat pocket and extracted a few coins, then tossed them at the man. He didn’t reach for them, simply let them fall into a puddle at his feet.
“You don’t seem very sorry,” he said, pushing his sleeves up. He obviously wanted a fight. The stress of the last few weeks surged, and my temper flared.
“I’ve apologized and offered you fair compensation for my mistake. What more do you want?” I snapped.
“Retribution,” he said with a wicked grin. Before I could answer, he let his fist fly, clipping my jaw as I dodged clumsily. I’d known the blow was coming but had underestimated his reflexes. I rubbed the spot he’d hit and nodded to him.
“So be it,” I said. I shucked my coat and rolled up my own sleeves.A fight might do me some good.Possibly release some of the tension I’ve been carrying around since I met Charlotte. I feinted right and planted a fist into his stomach, but he came up swinging. I managed to duck the blow and threw my shoulder into him, knocking him to the ground. He grunted with the impact, and I got a few good punches in his sides, but he hooked his leg around mine and used the opportunity to flip me face-first into a sizable mud puddle. When I surfaced, I looked up and realized we’d attracted a crowd of eager onlookers.
“Five on the man with the scar,” someone shouted.
“I’ll take that bet,” said another.
“Come on, lads! Ten on Jacques and his iron fists!”
Iron fists? Oh, hell.
The man called Jacques landed a painful knee to my groin and an impressive uppercut sent me reeling. I tried to stand, but he kicked me as I rose, leaving me with a ringing in my ears and a bloodied lip.
As my thoughts began to cloud, a shabby hem swirled into view.
“I beg your pardon,” came a fierce feminine voice. “But what do you think you are doing to my husband?”
