The Noble Guardian Page 8

  Slowly, Hawker shook his head. “Not this time,” he drawled. “You don’t understand. Florentia was my world. My everything.”

  Sudden understanding washed over him. Of course. He should’ve known this kind of breakdown was because of a woman. He shoved down his sleeve, keeping his voice low and even. “Tell me about her.”

  “Tia?” Hawker’s face lit, and a sad smile rippled across his lips. “She were light and air. A regular flower, she was. Married her, a year ago now.”

  “You? Wed?” So, it had been longer than he’d reckoned since he’d seen Hawk. This big oaf was the last man he’d expect to settle down. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I never thought to see you take vows.”

  “Din’t think to, not at first, not till a child were on the way.” Hawker’s face folded, and for a moment Samuel feared the man’s tears would flow again.

  Hawker cleared his throat. Several times. “Tia died in childbirth.”

  Samuel sat silent, refusing the platitudes or prayers others might offer. Nothing he could say would bring the woman back. Fix what wasn’t fixable. His years on the force had beat that lesson into him time and again.

  Lord, grant mercy to this man.

  “You know what I wish?” Hawker rasped out. “I wish I’d told her I loved her more. Wish I’d held her in my arms every chance I could, kissed her sweet lips as if it were the last time. Oh God, if I’d known we’d have only those few short years together, I’d have made every minute count. Every last one. I’d have spent less time with the horses and more precious hours with her.”

  Hawker leaned forward, his eyes burning embers. “Promise me, Thatcher! Promise you won’t do the same. When you find a woman you love, you’ll not waste one second. You’ll go after her with all your heart because one day, ahh, one day…it will be too late, and you’ll be left with nothing but regrets.”

  Slowly, Samuel nodded, storing away the man’s advice, though he’d likely never need it. “Aye.”

  “Good. Good…” Hawker’s words trailed off, and he stared into nothingness, memories flinching across his face. Samuel waited him out. He’d come around, eventually.

  With a great inhale, his friend finally rolled his shoulders and refocused on Samuel. “Well, don’t s’pose you rode all this way to hear me bawl. What are you here for?”

  He blew out a long breath. There was no way he could ask his old friend to accompany Miss Gilbert, not with a grief so large and a powerful thirst to drown it out. Blast! Hawker had been the one—the only—man he’d recommend Miss Gilbert hire.

  Samuel clenched his jaw, shutting down the host of ugly words begging for release. Suddenly he knew how Jonah felt, prodded into a mission he never wanted to take in the first place. But was this a task from God or a fool’s errand?

  He leaned back in his chair, considering seriously for the first time the possibility of guarding Miss Gilbert. The money would be more than enough to buy his land. He knew the route. The magistrate would understand his need to avoid the heath until Shankhart cooled down.

  So why the foreboding deep in his gut? He curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to pick up one of Hawker’s bottles and guzzle a swig. Somehow he knew, without a doubt, that if he took on the guardianship of Miss Gilbert, it would leave a mark. A deep one.

  But if he didn’t, that would leave the lady—clearly prone to attracting trouble—to travel on her own.

  Rock. Stone wall. And Samuel between.

  Pushing back his chair, he stood before he changed his mind. “I’m on my way to Penrith. Thought I’d stop by, but time’s wasting. Till next time, Hawk. And lay off the—”

  “Penrith?” Hawker bolted out of his chair and advanced so fast, Samuel couldn’t reach for his knife.

  “Say you’ll go through Manchester.” The big man grabbed him by his shoulders. “Say it!”

  This close, Samuel choked on Hawker’s stench. “I could, I suppose,” he eked out.

  Hawker’s hands dropped. So did his eyelids as he lifted his face to the rafters. “Thank You, God.”

  Samuel clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping. Hawker praying? Something big was up for that man’s crusty soul to seek the Almighty. “Why Manchester?”

  “My sister lives there.” Hawker’s gaze met his. “I need you to see my sister.”

  All this for a family member? Was the woman near death? Samuel narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

  “I’ve got something you need to bring to her. Something I can’t…Oh God, I can’t.” Hawker’s eyes watered again. “Promise me. Promise!”

  Gunshot. Wails and screams. Cannon fire and shouted orders all barreled back from his time in the Indies. Samuel swallowed down the memories. He owed this man his very breath. Whatever it was Hawker wanted him to bring to his sister, how could he refuse after Hawker had saved his life? “All right, you have my word. What is it you want me to deliver?”

  Once again, the man’s face crumpled, horrific pain etching lines into his brow. Hawker shuffled like an old man over to the only other door in the room and shoved it open. “In here.”

  Samuel strode to the small chamber, but when his feet hit the threshold, he stopped. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.

  In the center of the room sat a cradle, the child inside it bouncing and mouthing on a dried crust of bread. A dirty pink cap dipped low over one of the baby girl’s big blue eyes.

  Cold sweat broke out on Samuel’s forehead. Instantly he was ten years old again…the day he’d said goodbye to his little sister.

  Forever.

  The sweet scent of fresh pastry greeted Abby as she stepped into the Gable Inn. Pausing just inside the doorway, she breathed deeply. Quiet chatter and the tinkle of teacups set to saucers filled the large public room. Sunlight peered through the mullioned windows, bathing the patrons in a cheerful brilliance. Now this was how an inn should be run. The Laughing Dog could learn a thing or two from this establishment.

  One of the liveried servants approached her, his blue topcoat and beige waistcoat both ironed crisp and not a stain marred the fabric. “May I help you, miss?”

  “Some tea, please.”

  “Of course. Follow me.” He wound a path around the other diners, leading her to a small table in the back corner, perfect for one. He held out her chair, and when she sat, he asked, “Perhaps a slice of gooseberry pie as well, miss?”

  She smiled. Who could say no to that? “Yes, thank you.”

  While she waited, her gaze drifted around the room and landed on a couple near the window. Judging by the way the man leaned forward and whispered tenderly to the lady, they were clearly newly wed. A pretty shade of red bloomed on the woman’s cheeks. She gave him a playful swat on the arm, her laughter merry amidst the din of low conversation. His gaze held hers as if she were the only one in the room. His dearest love. His own. Abby’s chest squeezed. Soon that would be her. Sir Jonathan murmuring intimate endearments for her ears. Her feigning embarrassment while cherishing his words. His look of complete adoration—for her alone.

  “Here you are, miss.” The servant appeared with a thick slice of pastry and a steaming pot of bohea.

  “Thank you.”

  She picked up her fork, but after her first bite, she nearly called the fellow back to really thank him. The crust melted on her tongue, and the sweet yet tart filling blended into a heavenly mixture. After the terror of yesterday, this was a welcome change. Things were definitely starting to look up.

  Soon only crumbs remained on her plate. Not long after, she drained the teapot as well. The couple near the window departed, as did the other patrons, leaving her in an empty room. Glancing at her watch, Abby frowned. Nearly an hour had passed. Ought not Captain Thatcher have arranged for her new manservant by now?

  She pushed back her chair, about to go look for him, when the blue-coated waiter approached her once again.

  “You’re wanted outside, miss.”

  She gnawed the inside of her lip. Why hadn’t Captain Thatcher c
ome to retrieve her himself? Better yet, should he not have brought her new guard in here to discuss traveling details and expectations? Being summoned like a common criminal wasn’t very orthodox—or courteous—but truly, having spent the past twenty-four hours in the captain’s company, was it any surprise?

  “Very well. Thank you.” She paid for her refreshments then traded the dining room for the brilliance of the June afternoon. Her chaise stood in the yard, horses hitched, a thin man checking the buckles on a harness. Captain Thatcher’s bay stood nearby as well. But that was it. No other horses and no new manservant.

  She strode over to the scarecrow of a postilion, for there was no one else around who could have possibly summoned her. “Pardon, but did you wish to have a word with me?”

  The fellow turned, the sharp bones of his face looking as if they might break through his skin. “It weren’t me, miss. I believe it were him.” He tipped his head, indicating the yard behind her.

  She pivoted. Marching across the gravel, boots pounding and face shadowed by the brim of his hat, Captain Thatcher advanced like a man set for battle—holding out a small child in front of his body like a shield.

  Abby cocked her head at the curious sight. “Captain?”

  “Here.” He pressed the baby against her, so that she had no choice but to grasp the wriggling child.

  “Why are you handing me…?” Her question faded as she held the youngling up, face-to-face. Deep blue eyes sparkled wide above chubby cheeks. A smudged pink bonnet sat askew on her head, a few wisps of downy reddish hair peeking out. The little girl kicked her feet and cooed, her cherry lips parting into a huge smile. Five pearly teeth appeared on mostly barren gums, three on the bottom and two up top. She couldn’t be quite a year old yet, but was likely close to it. One plump hand reached out and snagged a piece of Abby’s hair. The girl giggled, and Abby’s heart melted. “What a sweet darling!”

  Captain Thatcher grunted. “Her name is Emma.”

  Abby lifted a brow at the man. “What is this about, Captain?”

  His gaze met hers, his thoughts unreadable behind his dark eyes. “I’ve decided to accept your offer to see you safely to Penrith, with a brief stop at Manchester along the way.”

  “That’s—oh!” Little fingers yanked her hair, the sharp pain as stunning as the captain’s declaration. She pried open the babe’s clenched fist and flung back the loose tendril, then speared Captain Thatcher with a pointed stare. Hundreds of questions bombarded her, but only one sailed out. “Why?”

  He shrugged as if she were a half-wit. “That’s where I’m to deliver the child.”

  Until this moment he couldn’t be bothered with escorting her, and now he wanted to take on both her and a child? She frowned. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  From this angle, light accentuated the strong cut of his jaw, stubble darkening the length of it. A muscle jumped on his neck, yet he said nothing. What on earth was he thinking?

  Finally, he spoke. “You need me, and I need the money.”

  No shame rippled at the edges of his words. He didn’t even bat an eye. The captain’s blunt manner, while refreshingly honest, was astounding.

  The girl wriggled, her little hands grasping for more hanks of hair. Abby turned the baby to face the captain. A delighted squeal cut the air, and the child bounced up and down. Suspicion curled through Abby like a waft of smoke. Did he need the money to hire someone to pay for the child’s care—his child’s care?

  “Is this child yours, Captain?”

  “No!” Despite the denial, red crept up his neck, and he cleared his throat. “Emma belongs to the stable master here at the Gable. I owe him a favor, and it’s his wish the girl be delivered to his sister. That’s all. So do we have a deal or not, Miss Gilbert?”

  The babe swiveled her head side to side, squirming for release—and driving home the scope of what Captain Thatcher was asking of her. Abby gripped the girl tighter before Emma slipped from her hands. When her sisters were little, she’d looked after them on occasion, but this was a far different venture. She’d be a nursemaid, trapped inside a chaise with a wiggly bundle of energy all the way to Manchester, which had to be nearly two hundred miles from here. By the time she finally made it to Sir Jonathan, she’d be a wreck. No, this was out of the question.

  She shook her head and held out the child. “I think not. Perhaps you ought to find someone else to accompany you, as will I.”

  He gathered the girl with one arm, the child looking impossibly small and fragile next to his worn riding coat. Was he disappointed? Angry? Frustrated? Hard to decipher with that even stare of his.

  “Good day, then, Miss Gilbert. I bid you Godspeed.” Wheeling about, he stalked to his horse. He shifted little Emma to his other arm, clutching her tight to his chest, then reached up to the saddle with his free hand and hoisted them both atop the big chestnut bay.

  As the captain settled her in front of him, the girl’s mouth opened wide, and a wail crescendoed into a screech—cutting sharply into Abby’s heart. It would be a cruel ride for so young a child to travel on naught but horseback. Abby gnawed the inside of her cheek. Should she let the rough-and-tumble captain fend for a little one on his own for so long a distance? Was it really any of her concern? Or had God put her here for such a time as this?

  Frustration and guilt nicked her conscience, and she stifled a wince. Truly, she’d be no kinder than her stepmother to ignore such an outright need.

  “Wait!” Against her better judgment, she gathered up her skirts and dashed over to Captain Thatcher. She might regret this later, but for now, it seemed the right—the only—thing to do.

  She lifted her hands. “It appears, sir, that you need me as much as I need you. Hand Emma down and let us be on our way.”

  Chapter Nine

  Abby fought a yawn and shifted on the bench in the entryway of the White Horse Inn. It wouldn’t be too soon to lay her head on a pillow this night—if Captain Thatcher could secure her a room. Though this particular coaching inn boasted three floors of lodgings, judging by the hubbub of horses and people in the front yard and the loud chatter floating out from the public room, many others sought a night’s stay here as well.

  She glanced down at the child in the basket next to her on the bench. Long lashes fanned against cherub cheeks. Good. Asleep at last. While little Emma was a pleasant child and had already wormed her way into Abby’s heart, her suspicions had been correct. The girl had squirmed about in the carriage all afternoon, eager to explore every last inch of it, with a particular interest in pulling herself up to the window. Absently, Abby rubbed the sore muscles in her left forearm, the one that had repeatedly shot out to catch Emma before the youngling toppled headlong to the floor. The child would be walking in no time—and then trouble would begin in earnest.

  Stifling another yawn, Abby pressed her fingers to her lips and lifted her face. Captain Thatcher stood in front of her, and her breath caught. How did he do that? Appear without a sound? The man was more ghost than human.

  He held out a key. “Last room.”

  A frown weighted her brow as she accepted his offering. “And you?”

  His dark eyes flashed. “Didn’t want to leave my horse anyway. Come. There’s an open table.”

  He strode off before she could comment. She picked up Emma and followed his black riding cloak into a boisterous taproom, the weight of her charge slowing her somewhat. He led her to a table in the back of the room, nearest the door where servants buzzed. Abby took the chair farthest from the opening and tucked Emma between her and the wall, praying that the babe would continue to sleep.

  Captain Thatcher dipped his head toward her. “Good night, then.”

  Her jaw dropped as he turned to go. “Wait! Will you not dine with me? And see me to my room?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, the shadow from the brim of his hat hiding most of his face, but there was no mistaking the distinct disapproval in the tone of his voice. “I don’t think that would b
e a good idea, Miss Gilbert.”

  The babe rubbed a fist against her cheek and squirmed in the basket—though her eyes remained closed. For now, at least. Yet there were no guarantees. Abby’s stomach cramped when a waft of stew hustled by, clutched in a servant’s hands. Were Emma to wake, dinner would be impossible.

  “Please, Captain. At least stay until I have had a few bites to eat, in case Emma awakens.”

  He stood still a moment longer, a statue in the midst of the humming activity. Before she could blink, he dragged the table away from the wall and scraped a chair behind it, sitting with his back against the stones…as far from Emma as possible.

  Abby couldn’t decide if she should thank him for staying or ask the cause of such skittishness. In the end, she chose neither and remained silent. She could only hope Sir Jonathan wouldn’t be as restless around babes—but of course he wouldn’t be, or he’d not have asked for her hand in the first place. Marriage was always the precursor for children. No doubt Sir Jonathan wanted as many little ones as she.

  A waiter approached, his apron straining around a potbelly. Apparently the food at the White Horse was good. “Evenin’ sir, lady.” He nodded toward them both. “We’ve got a nice kidney pie with mash on the side. Or Cook’s made a lovely dish of boiled swedes and roasted up some stubble goose. Can’t go wrong with either one. So, what’s it to be?”

  Abby’s mouth watered. “Pie, please.”

  “The same,” Captain Thatcher said.

  The waiter dashed off, leaving them alone in a room full of chattering diners. Abby watched the merry travelers, raising glasses and sharing banter. Captain Thatcher watched them as well, but considering the guarded clench of his jaw, he didn’t see the same cheer. And for some reason, a great sadness draped over her shoulders. How many burdens did this man carry? What had he seen in all his years to make him so hesitant to smile? A curious desire welled to be the one to put a grin on his face, to lighten the heavy weight—whatever it was—that he carried.