Page 185 of The Ladies Least Likely
Ren froze, and a flash of rage joined the heat of humiliation coursing over him. That he would be beaten and turned over to his tormentors by a mere slip of a girl!
A shout of answering rage came from behind him. “Skip off, ya ragamuffin! Our rumpus is with the Earl of Runtwick ‘ere.”
“I know what you’re about, Abel Cain,” the girl shouted. “I heard your sparking blows. The whole of Shepton Mallet heard ‘em, great, braying donkey that ye are. Now leave his lordship alone, or I’ll flatten your nose.”
Ren grinned against his will. The imp with the wild hair and spatter of freckles across her nose was taking his side.
“Rantipole!” the wainwright’s son shouted. “Rag-tag tatterdemalion!”
The slingshot swerved to a point beyond Ren’s shoulder. “Want a blinker, Bram Wright? I’ll give ye two,” she threatened. “Love to hear you explain yer blackened peepers to your mum.”
“Spoilsport,” chimed the ropemaker’s boy. “Mar all. Addle plot. We’re just ‘avin a bit o’ fun.”
The rustle behind him told Ren that his attackers drew close. He didn’t dare turn for fear his foot would unbalance him and he’d go tumbling down the slope.
“You lay a hand on ‘im and I’ll squeak to the whole town that you thrashed ‘im, you three! That’ll addle your plot well and good,” the little fury shrieked.
Ren revised his assessment. This girl was no avenging angel but something closer to a hellion. The white lace tucker at her bodice was askew, her bodice was stained with berry juice, and her apron boasted a long tear. As she stepped around the bush, the stone in her slingshot still aimed at the boys, Ren detected that she was barefoot. But why was she protecting him?
“Saucebox,” the ironmonger’s son, Abel, roared. “Time you learned your place!”
Ren braced himself as the scrape of stone and brush of leaves told him the larger boy had launched himself toward them. The hellion curled her lip and released the stone in her slingshot without hesitation. A thump and a resounding howl told Ren the stone hit its mark. He glanced over his shoulder to see Abelclutching his shoulder. Indignation filled the boy’s expression, but also a grudging respect.
“Now tail down and pike off, all of ya, like the jolter heads ye are,” his avenging fury called.
The wainwright’s son lunged up the slope. Quicker than Ren could follow, a stone appeared from a hidden apron pocket and flew at the attacker’s leg. Bram yelped and grabbed his thigh, hopping about in pain.
The slingshot swerved to its third target. “You’re too white-livered to touch a girl, Gil Roper,” she taunted. “I’ve got bigger ballocks than you do.”
Ren held on to a branch for balance and turned to watch his three adversaries retreat down the slope. Grabbing their fishing poles from the bank, they scrabbled down to the road along the river and set off upon it, the ropemaker’s son blubbering and wailing, and the wainwright’s son limping worse than Ren did.
He turned to face his deliverer. Her hair waved free in the wind, no cap to restrain it, and she pocketed the slingshot in her apron with casual ease. Then she wiped a hand across her cheek, leaving a smear of dirt.
“I w-w-wish I could say I didn’t need a g-gul to potect me,” Ren said. “But it seems I d-do.”
She grinned at him, a wide, gamine grin, and Ren’s humiliation ebbed. Her eyes took in everything, the way he clung to the branch for balance, his oddly shaped shoe. She’d heard his speech, but her face didn’t cloud with scorn the way so many faces in the village did. She merely looked him in the face, bold, direct.
“Give you a hand down, shall I?” she said briskly. “Afore we both go arsey varsey.”
Ren normally went stiff-backed at any offer of assistance. It was generally offered with pity, or with sly condescension. It was not the way of the world he lived in that an earl should be amalformed weakling. But this girl simply stuck out her arm, bent at the elbow, and Ren felt no shame in taking it. Her arm was thin and strong as the rest of her.
“You certain—” He concentrated. “Certainly have a way with you.” He was astonished to hear all his words emerge correctly. For some reason he didn’t panic with this girl, the words tumbling out half-formed or confused, or worse yet, not coming altogether. She had a steady way about her that calmed him. He could take a breath and that extra half-second to think about how the sounds should feel in his mouth.
“Oh, I’m every bit the ragamuffin they say,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ve run into those boys before. They like to bully everyone. Used to be me. Watch, your lordship, that’s a snake hole! Don’t you put a foot wrong there.”
“I am well accustomed to putting a footwrong,” Ren said.
He delivered the line perfectly, without one stammer or halt of his twisted tongue, the first true joke of his life. She tipped back her head and gave a riotous shout of laughter, and Ren could have died with joy right there on the hill above the gentle River Sheppey.
He didn’t know her name yet, but she was his friend for life.
Once they had safely descended the hill and gained the road, she pointed at his shoe. “What’s it, then?”
“Clubfoot,” he said, clenching his teeth.
The late earl had been incandescent with rage at his son’s deformity, insisting the midwife had twisted the boy at birth, marring his precious heir. The delivery of his sister a few years later with her own abnormalities had rather suggested there must be some stain upon the Earl of Renwick, the sins of the father marked on his progeny, just like the medieval legends. The countess withdrew into opium and cards, not one to put her own happiness on the line to protect her children from their father.
“Rotten luck,” his new friend said, and that was the end of the discussion. She matched her gait to his as the river dove back into its underground outlets and buildings sprouted along the lanes to town, growing steadily bigger and older.
