Nab stared sullenly out the window. George and Harry, two of Bridgewater’s oldest and nastiest servants, sat on either side of him, and the carriage bumped roughly across the uneven path.
“I’m hungry,” Nab demanded.
“There’s no food for thieving little shites,” George said. “You’ll be lucky if we don’t eat you.”
Eliza, the cook, an older woman with round, pink cheeks, gave Nab a regretful look. “Once the master doles out his punishment, we’ll give you something to send you on your way.”
Her daughter, Grace, a year or so older than he was and with dark ringlets, suppressed a smile.
The master—Colonel Bridgewater—had questioned Nab roughly about his friendship with Undine, and Nab had thrown every piece of information about her that everyone in the borderlands already knew the arsehole’s way, adding tears for effect—Undine was a fortune-teller, Undine saw men alone in her home, Undine was friends with a goddamned Scottish clan chief named Abby Kerr. Bridgewater had been furious, but he’d finally given up, and Nab had thought he’d be free to go, but the man had grabbed him at the last minute and shoved him into the servants’ carriage, which had been readied for the early return to Coldstream. Bridgewater had told George and Harry that Nab was not to leave the carriage until they’d reached Coldstream, and then he was to be locked up until Bridgewater returned later in the day and decided what to do with him.
“We ain’t giving the lad a meal, Eliza,” George said sharply.
“When you run the kitchen, George, you may set the rules. Until then…” She folded her chubby hands around her basket.
Grace met Nab’s eyes, amused, and returned to the book she’d been reading.
There was something about the way she looked at him with that superior smirk on her face. He found it extremely annoying but also something else—something that made him want to take that book from her hands and toss it out the window. It also made him want to pull the letter out of his pocket—the one that would make him a hero—hold it in front of that upturned pink nose, and ask what she’d done to bring about peace in the borderlands. Bridgewater thought he was so high and mighty, but never once in his rant about Undine did he think to look in Nab’s pockets.
“What’s ‘Nab’ short for?” Grace asked suddenly.
Nab’s face exploded in heat. How could she have known to ask the worst question in the world?
“Nab,” Harry said. “It’s what ye do with criminals, aye? Ye nab ’em!” He grinned like a fool, and Nab wished he could knock Harry’s few remaining teeth from his head.
Grace gave the man the same look she’d given Nab and dug into the parcel beside her.
“The lady asked you a question,” George said. “Answer her.”
Lady? Ha! She was a servant. At least Nab had a proper job and no one to call boss except himself.
Grace closed her book, taking care to keep her finger on the page she was reading—Lord knew she wouldn’t want to miss a word, Miss Snooty Nose—and regarded him with mild curiosity.
“’Tis short for Norbert,” he said through gritted teeth, ears ringing with shame.
“Oh.” She opened her book and went back to the story.
Bloody goddamned girl.
“I need to stop,” Grace said after a moment.
Harry and George looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Girls and their pissing. Nab hoped there might be some stinging nettle in the woods to brush her when she—
A very strange feeling came over him at the notion, and he found himself fighting to keep his eyes fixed on the view beyond the window rather than on her face.
George banged on the ceiling. “Tom! Stop! One of the ladies needs to take a walk.”
The carriage rattled to a stop, and Grace unfolded herself.
George jumped out to hold the door, and Grace bent to check the laces on her boots before stepping down. She unfolded herself in a swirl of fabric, and Nab felt something round being pushed into his hand.
She jumped onto the road, ignoring George’s hand, and Nab shoved the plum into his pocket, flushing hard.
“I’ll go with you,” George said to Grace.
“The hell you will.”
Grace flounced off, while Nab stared, speechless, at that shapely back.
“How far are we?” Harry said, exiting the carriage himself.
“Nearly to Edinburgh,” George said.
The plum was cool and smooth, a bit like Grace’s hand, and he began to plot a way to savor his gift.