The Noble Guardian Page 13

  He recoiled—or was that a wince? Hard to say, but the cloth of his suit coat tightened across his broad shoulders. Either she’d surprised him or he completely disagreed with her theology. She stood silent, awaiting his verdict.

  Finally, he spoke. “You are a singular woman, Miss Gilbert.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  A small smile ghosted one side of his mouth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Slowly, he folded his arms and widened his stance. “All right, since you insist, but remember, you pushed for this information. The man who attacked your carriage—the one who didn’t make it—was the brother of a very powerful highwayman, who is now out for revenge. I am the target.”

  The knowledge wasn’t surprising, but it was heavy, and her shoulders sagged, jostling the babe. How many times in the captain’s life had he fought off violence of such magnitude? Her gaze drifted over his face. His features had no doubt been handsome once, a strange mix of boyishness and masculinity. But now, after years of weathering the darkest whims of man, he wore the scars of past battles, from the swollen, purple bump on his nose to the angry red abrasion cutting a line at his temple. Her own awful upbringing began to pale in comparison. Verbal jabs were one thing, but the scrapes and bruises marring the captain’s flesh were quite another.

  “I see,” she murmured.

  “No, lady, you don’t.” His gaze sharpened into a dagger, slicing into her in ways she couldn’t understand. “The man gunning for me is a killer of the worst sort. He’ll stop at nothing to hurt me—nothing—including going after you or the child. It would be better, Miss Gilbert, if we parted ways.”

  The harshness in his voice shivered through her—as did his words. He was right. After witnessing the effects of the beating he’d suffered, it would be better for her if she found a different guard and made haste to Brakewell Hall.

  But why did the thought of saying goodbye to this rough-and-tumble man feel like lightning struck her soul, leaving behind a hollowed trunk that might not stand without him?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Each jolt of the carriage over the rocky road magnified the pounding in Abby’s head. Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she tried to shove back the pain, but to no avail. The veins beneath her touch pulsed with a crazed beat. Apparently this grand and glorious headache had unpacked its bags and moved in, settling for a lengthy stay no matter what she did to evict it.

  The carriage tilted to the right, and Abby grabbed the side of the large basket at her feet to keep it from banging into the wall. Emma had finally fallen asleep, and thankfully, her eyes remained closed as she lay nestled in her blanket. Small rattles wheezed with each of her exhales. Just thinking about tending to Emma once she did reawaken made the ache in Abby’s head throb all the more.

  Leaning sideways, she glanced out the window at the passing greenery, hoping for a glimpse of the upcoming inn. Surely they would be arriving soon…wouldn’t they? She’d trade her life for a hot cup of tea right now, and the hotter, the better, judging by the next shiver that shook her bones. Despite the sunshiny day, she was cold. So cold. Tea would be just the thing to warm her, and maybe a scalding drink would burn away the pain raging every time she swallowed.

  But staring out the window didn’t make an inn appear. Only rows of trees passed by, their trunks lined up like soldiers at attention. Abby frowned. Perhaps it had been a mistake to continue traveling after the trauma of the morning. Yet remaining in the same building where the captain had been attacked was out of the question—especially knowing the villain had gotten away and might still be lurking about, injured or not.

  The coach lurched over a bump. Flinging out her hand lest she crack her head against the wall, Abby turned away from the glass and glanced down at Emma. The sweet girl rubbed one chubby fist against her cheek yet did not open her eyes.

  Sighing, Abby sank back against the seat. Only God knew if she’d made the right decision to remain with Emma and the captain—leastwise until they reached Manchester. She’d been too weary to choose otherwise, even when the captain had insisted on finding her a new guard. The mere idea of hiring another man had drained the last of her strength. Even now her eyelids grew heavy and her chin dipped with the thought of it. Perhaps if she just gave in to exhaustion, the headache would go away, and she’d be able to think more clearly.

  Seconds later, the carriage stopped, and her head jerked backward. Groggy, Abby fumbled for her watch brooch, then blinked at the glass face. She’d been wrong. It hadn’t been seconds but nearly a half hour since she’d last checked the time.

  The lowering of the stairs rattle-clunked outside the door, and she straightened on the seat. Every muscle screamed to be left as is—then screamed louder as she bent to pick up Emma. Just before scooping up the babe, another shiver rattled through her, and she pulled back. She hated to admit it, but she simply didn’t have the strength to lift the girl. It would do neither of them any good if she tumbled out of the carriage with Emma in her arms.

  As soon as the door opened, Abby peeked out. Shadows from the captain’s hat shaded his eyes and covered the wound on his temple, but nothing could hide the jagged abrasion ripping across his nose. Though she was loath to trouble him more than necessary, the weakness in her arms reminded her this was necessary.

  “Would you mind retrieving Emma after you help me down, Captain? She is asleep in her basket, but she will wake soon enough.”

  His dark gaze drifted over her face. Many a time her stepmother had studied her as intently, but beneath the captain’s searching, compassion surfaced in his eyes, so genuine that it stole her breath. Heat flashed through her—a welcome warmth.

  With a nod, he held out his hand.

  His fingers wrapped around hers and she stepped out, his strength a bulwark to lean on as the world swirled and her head pounded. When her feet hit the ground, she planted them firmly to keep from swaying, then pulled away. Or tried to.

  The captain held on with an unrelenting grip.

  She arched a brow at him. Why would he not release her?

  His brown eyes merely bored into hers, offering no explanation. Then, as suddenly as a spring tempest, he let go.

  “We’ll stay here for the night,” he rumbled.

  She glanced at the sky. No storm clouds sullied the horizon, nor did the sun lay low. Puzzled, she met his gaze. “But we can easily reach the next inn.”

  “Not with your fever.”

  Fever? Her fingers flew to her forehead. A bit moist, but the skin surely didn’t feel any hotter than her hand. She’d confess to a headache and sore throat if need be, but not to a fever.

  She dropped her hand and smoothed her damp palm along her skirt. “You are mistaken.”

  His trademark smirk lifted one side of his mouth. “Your hot skin says otherwise.”

  There’d be no arguing the point with him, not the way his jaw hardened into a strong line. La! What was she thinking? She didn’t feel up to arguing, anyway.

  She forced a small smile, for she’d learned long ago how to hide her true state. “I am certain that after a cup of tea I shall be fine. Besides, we have lost enough time already.”

  “Then it won’t matter if we delay further.”

  Stubborn man. She’d stamp her foot if she knew the jolt wouldn’t climb up her leg and join the throbbing inside her skull.

  “While I appreciate your concern, Captain, I assure you I can manage a few more miles today. After all, a bride cannot be late for her own wedding.”

  He grunted. “I’m sure your Lord Fanciness won’t mind.”

  “It’s Sir Jonathan Aberley.” She scowled—then repented of it as the movement heightened the pain behind her eyes. “And of course he will mind.”

  “Not if he knew you were feeling poorly.” The captain folded his arms, his black riding cloak stretching taut at the shoulders. “If the man is worth his salt, he’d insist you rest for a while.”

  Would he? What a lovely thought, to be so cheri
shed that time and schedules could be tied up and placed on a shelf, awaiting her renewed strength. But—illness or not—one simply didn’t keep a baronet waiting.

  She shook her head. Bad idea. The world spun, and she flung out her hand to shore herself up against the carriage. “I can rest as easily in the carriage as I can at an inn.”

  “Hogwash.”

  One of the horses whickered, apparently as astonished as she. Why was the man so unyielding? She blew out a sigh. “Fine. Then think of yourself. That man, that highwayman, he is still out there. We have not traveled very far from Stratford. You need to put space between him and…and…”

  Her words trailed off as the world tipped. Strange, that. She angled her head, straightening things out for the moment, leastwise visually. Her thoughts, however, would not be as easily ordered. What had she been saying?

  The captain narrowed his eyes, then unfolded his arms and offered her a hand. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll come back for Emma once you’re seated.”

  She stared down at his outstretched palm, mesmerized at the way the darkness closed in around it. Like the drawing shut of a great set of draperies, daylight slowly vanished. She blinked, unable to think why or how or—

  “Miss Gilbert?”

  Her name was an annoying blackfly, buzzing around her head, adding to the pounding inside. She reached to swipe it away—then tilted sideways.

  Oh dear.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Strong arms broke her fall, lifting her up against a chest that smelled of leather and horses and man. Her face pressed against a warm neck, and for the first time in her life, she felt safe. Protected. As if the arms of God Himself held her aloft. Ahh, but she could live here.

  Slowly, the wooziness ebbed away, and as it did, the pounding in her head crept back. So did light and the sound of Captain Thatcher’s low voice.

  “…a room. Now!”

  She winced. Why was he so loud? Who was he upbraiding? Summoning all her strength, she lifted her head. The blurry outline of a public room sharpened into focus, as did a pungent waft of ale. Her stomach flipped, and she laid her head back down.

  The ends of the captain’s hair brushed against her cheek as he strode across the room and mounted some stairs. Somewhere toward the back of her mind—far, far back—she knew she ought to protest this cradling of her body against a man who wasn’t her intended. But he was so warm. So solid. The captain’s sturdy embrace held her together and mended holes in her heart she hadn’t known were torn.

  Still, that didn’t make it right.

  Once again she forced her head up, immediately regretting the loss of the comforting nook between his neck and shoulder. “I can walk on my own, sir.”

  “You can fall on your own too.” His voice grumbled against her ear.

  His boot kicked open a door, and several breaths later, he laid her down on a cloud. Her eyelids drooped. It would be so easy to give in to this pampering. To lie about like a queen with this handsome knight to do her bidding.

  Heat jolted through her, and her eyes popped wide. Handsome? Captain Thatcher? Her gaze sharpened on the worried brown eyes staring down at her, the swollen nose, the scars and lines. His was no conventional beauty, but that didn’t make him any less striking. Indeed, she’d never seen a more attractive man.

  The thought burned through her from head to toe. What kind of bride was she, thinking so fondly of another? She pushed up to her elbows, and the ceiling spun in a wide circle.

  “Be at ease, Miss Gilbert.” The captain’s big hand guided her back to the counterpane. “I’ll get you to your baronet soon enough. I vow it.”

  “But I…”

  She what? The draperies began to pull shut again, making it hard to see and even to think. Yet she had to tell him. Something urgent. Something important…but what was it she wanted to say?

  “Shh,” he murmured. “Rest now.”

  “You are so kind,” she whispered. That was it! He was kind, despite his gruff exterior. And now that she’d told him, she could let go.

  So she did.

  Women had called Samuel many things over the years. Cold. Taciturn. Cagey and evasive. But kind? He frowned. Miss Abigail Gilbert could see the best in a baited bear about to rip off a man’s head.

  Fine dots of perspiration glistened on her fair brow, and he clenched his fingers to keep from brushing back the damp tendrils sticking to her temples. Even ill, the woman was a beauty. Almost angelic the way her long lashes curved shut against her pink cheeks. His gaze drifted, pausing for a moment on the full lips so easy to coax a smile from, on to the fine line of her neck, then swept the rest of her body. Alarm rose in increments the longer he studied her. She was still. Too still. Sweet heavens! Was she yet breathing?

  He dropped to his knees and leaned over her, practically cheek to cheek, praying to God he’d feel a flutter of breath against his skin. If she died, here, now, he’d have no one to blame but himself for exposing her to such illness. How had things spiraled so out of control?

  Faint as a faery’s whisper, a warm wisp of air kissed his face. He sank back on his haunches, blowing out a long breath. She’d be all right. Of course she would. He’d settle for nothing less. Besides, when the babe had first taken ill, hadn’t little Emma appeared as close to death’s door as—

  Emma!

  He shot to his feet and stalked out of the room. The child was likely even now squalling up a storm for having been left alone in the carriage. Hawker would have his neck for being so careless with the babe.

  A few patrons dotted the public room. Their eyes burned through his riding cloak as he blazed past them and stormed out the front door. As soon as the wood slapped shut behind him, he stopped. Ten yards ahead, where the carriage should have been, nothing but empty gravel met his gaze. Had a dull-witted stable boy retired the coach without first checking inside?

  He veered left, his boots pounding the ground with each stride. Hopefully Emma still slept in her basket and she’d be no worse for the wear of having been left behind.

  Breezing through the wide stable doors, he swept the area with a wild gaze, all the while listening with his whole body for a whimper or a cry. A few hooves stamped the ground. Straw rustled. Pilgrim’s ears flicked and her nose raised at his entrance. He’d have to tend to her later.

  Over in one corner, two ostlers rehashed their exploits of the night before as they worked on brushing down some horses. But other than their chatter and the normal sounds of a working stable, not a single baby wail rent the air.

  Samuel swung right and closed in on the yellow carriage. Had Emma slept through the ordeal, then? He yanked open the door and peered in. No basket. No baby.

  Blast!

  Wheeling about, he stomped over to the men. “Have you seen a babe in a basket? She was in that carriage over there.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder.

  Only one paused from his work, his head shaking. “No, sir. Weren’t no little ‘un in there, leastwise not when the coach were brought in.”

  Samuel’s chest tightened. He tipped his hat to the man and beat a trail back outside. Had the postilion taken her inside the inn? But if so, why hadn’t he seen the man or Emma in the taproom?

  Fear for the child’s safety punched him in the gut, and he increased his pace, eating up the ground with long-legged steps. This time he shot toward the back entrance of the inn, rather than the front. A stone stairwell led to the lower level, and he flew down the flagstones. He’d start at the bottom and work his way to the top. If he had to tear the inn apart floor by floor, so be it. He would find the child. He had to.

  But what if he didn’t?

  Please, God.

  Pushing down doubt, he shoved the door open—and a blessed, barking cough pealed out from a room down the corridor. He dashed along the smoky passageway and flew into a large kitchen. Near a wall lined with shelves of crockery, a plump woman on a stool patted Emma on the back, little puffs of flour wafting off her sleeves with the
movement.

  Samuel’s shoulders sagged, tension draining.

  At the center of the room, the cook looked up from where she stood chopping a chicken, and aimed the butcher knife at him. “Guests aren’t allowed down here. Best be off with you, then.”

  “That’s my child.” He nodded toward the babe and advanced.

  At the sound of his voice, Emma turned, her rosy cheeks splitting wide in a grin. She flailed a chubby fist toward him, greeting him with a rattling coo.

  He reached for the babe and nodded at the woman. “Thank you.”

  The woman handed Emma over with a cancerous gaze. “For shame, sir! Leaving a little one unattended, and an ill one at that.”

  The cook chimed in from her post at the table. “Aye. What’s this world coming to when a father leaves behind his baby like a forgotten loaf of bread?”

  It was reasonable to believe the cook assumed he was Emma’s father. Unreasonable, however, was the queer catch of his breath and lonely ache in his soul—especially when Emma reached for his hat and tugged it sideways. What would it feel like to hold a child of his own?

  One by one, he removed Emma’s fingers from the brim of his hat and retreated, as much from the strange notion as from the cook, who yet brandished her big knife. “I assure you, ladies, that it was necessary. Good day.”

  He ducked out the door, the last of the cook’s words stabbing him in the back.

  “That child needs a mother.”

  He winced. She couldn’t be more right. Emma did need a mother, and well did he know it. Going to live with an aunt didn’t guarantee a happy ending, a lesson he’d learned the hard way long ago.

  Gaining the servant’s stairway, he ascended, keeping a strong hold on the girl wriggling against his shoulder. No doubt she’d be hungry soon. Thunderation! Should he turn back and once again face the two women of wrath to beg a bowl of porridge?