Bess heard the horses clattering on the cobblestones and looked to her father. “Four,” she said.
“Only three,” he replied with a grin.
It was a little game they played, trying to guess the number of visitors to the inn.
The laughter of several men, the ominous crack of thunder in the distance, the squeak of the stable door opening as horses were led inside out of the bad weather was a good indication there would be more than a few coins spent at the Hound and Stag this late afternoon.
“Soldiers,” her father said.
She nodded. They were part of the company that was trying to bring to justice the highwayman known as the Gypsy. For the last two days regular patrols had passed the inn on a daily basis beginning around six of the clock. The thief usually struck around the midnight hour so having the troops out and about trying to catch him in the act was becoming routine.
The door opened and in walked the one man Bess had hoped would not grace their establishment with his presence yet again. Each time he did, she felt as though she should take a bath after his departure for his greedy stare made her feel dirty.
“Captain Penry,” her father greeted the man, his voice a touch less than was polite.
“Arbra,” the captain replied. His hot stare shot to Bess. “Milady.”
Bess forced herself to curtsey to the man, though what she really wanted to do was slap the smirk from his sharp face. She had to be careful not to get too close to him for she feared sooner or later he was going to put his hand to her. The thought of him touching her sent shudders of distaste down her spine. She dared not slap him out of fear of what he might do. He had the look of a man to whom revenge was a way of life. He could put the inn off-limits to his men, close them down entirely if he liked.
“You won,” her father said of the four men who had entered. After removing their oilskins, the three soldiers accompanying their captain took a table near the bar and the captain walked to his usual haunt in the far corner. The words were barely out of her father’s mouth when the striking of hooves to stone was heard again.
“A busy day for us,” Bess told him.
“Would appear so. I’ll see to the captain. You see to his men.”
Their eyes met and she smiled her gratitude. Her father knew how she felt about the commandant of the Royal Marines.
“Ale all around,” the sergeant of the group told her. “And for me, whatever you have cooking that smells so good.”
“Beef barley soup and soda bread,” she informed him.
“I’ll have that, as well,” one of the other men said and the third nodded in agreement.
Going over to the bar, she drew three ales and clutching them in her hand started back to their table when the door opened again. She glanced at the newcomers—a smile on her face that froze in place as soon as she saw who had entered the taproom.
He was alone this time, as he had been the first night he had come to the inn. His black coat and britches were soaked, his boots muddy and the brim of his cavalier hat rained water from it as he removed it. The only thing dry about him appeared to be his dark hair.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Penry said from across the room. “A drowned rat, it seems.”
“Bess,” he said as though he hadn’t heard the captain’s rude remark. “Would you happen to have an available room for the night?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said. “Let me serve the men and I will take you to it.”
“Much obliged,” he said, shivering. He ran the sleeve of his coat under his dripping nose then sneezed.
“Mayhap you’ll catch your death of cold, Farrell, and put an end to your wretched existence.”
From the corner of her eye, Bess saw the earl turn his attention to the captain but he said nothing to the insult. He was removing his leather gloves, stuffing them inside his sodden coat as he held the other man’s mocking glower.
“This way, Your Grace,” Bess said. She cast a passing glance at her father and saw him frowning.
The earl followed her to the stairs and the heavy tread of his boots on the steps told her he was bone-tired. Looking around at him, it made her heart ache to see his shoulders slumped, his head down.
She led him to the room across the hall from her own, opened the door and stepped aside. “In here, Your Grace.”
He leveled his gaze on her. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “I hate that gods-be-damned title. Call me Declan or don’t call me anything.”
His words shocked her. It had been her experience in life that those of the peerage took umbrage if they were not addressed properly, given their due in their station of life. All she could do was nod her acceptance of his request although she wasn’t sure she could oblige him.
He placed his hat on the bureau by the door as he entered the room. She watched him look about him.
“It’s very nice, Bess,” he told her. He put his hands to the front of his coat to pull it off but had to stop as he sneezed twice in succession.
“You should get out of those wet clothes, milord,” she said. “If you do not mind wearing some of my father’s I could clean and dry yours and get them back to you by morning.”
He nodded and sneezed yet again.
“Undress then get in bed. I will be right back with the clothing and then I will get you a hot toddy to hopefully ward off a cold,” she said and softly closed the door behind her.
On the way to her father’s room she marveled at her boldness. She put a hand to her cheek. How dare she order the earl about as though he were a commoner? He had every right to chastise her for her forwardness, but she did not believe he would. Unlike the uppity captain in the taproom below, the earl had a layer of kindness to him that showed in his remarkable blue eyes. A gentleness that was just as appealing to her as his handsome face.
She went into her father’s bureau and pulled out a pair of britches, a long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of soft woolen socks. She did not think the earl would appreciate wearing another man’s underpants so she refrained from adding them to the other things. Hurrying back to his room, she tapped lightly upon the panel.
“Come.”
She entered to find him stretched out in the bed with the covers pulled all the way up to his chin and he was shivering, his teeth chattering.
“Oh, milord,” she groaned and hurried to the bed. She placed the clothing on the straight back chair beside it and dared to put her palm to his forehead. He was burning up.
“Do you want another quilt before I go?”
“Aye.”
Hurrying across to her room, she jerked her own quilt from her bed and ran back into the hall. She spread it over him, shocking herself again when she pushed the damp hair out of his eyes.
“I am going to make that toddy,” she said firmly.
“T…thank you.”
She turned to go and ran right into a hard chest.
“I was wondering what was taking you so long. Is anything amiss?”
She stepped back, her eyes going up to the unkind dark orbs of the captain. His thin lips were pressed tightly together as he stared down at her.
“His Grace is sick,” she said. “I need to make him a toddy.”
The captain switched his hard stare to the earl and his upper lip curled. “Is he now?” he asked in a hateful tone. “You have my sympathy, Farrell.”
“Go to hell,” the earl told him.
“Shall I take you with me?” the captain inquired.
“Get out of my room, Penry,” the earl snapped and sat up, pushing the quilt from his bare chest.
“Or what?”
“Or I will toss you out the gods-be-damned window,” came the warning.
“May I be of assistance, Captain?”
Bess turned to find her father standing in the doorway, his face as hard and set as the earl’s.
“You really shouldn’t allow your daughter to be alone in a bedchamber with the likes of him,” Penry stated. “You need to take better care of her reputation and virtue.”
“Get out,” the earl shouted.
The captain snorted. He turned from the bed, pushed past her father and stomped down the stairs.
“Help him get dressed, Papa,” Bess said, avoiding her father’s eyes as she followed the captain out of the room.
“The man’s a reprobate,” the captain told her, glancing up at her as they went down the stairs.
“He’s been nothing but a gentleman to me,” she replied.
“Give him time,” the odious man said with a snort. “He’ll show you his true colors.”
She lowered her head as she stepped off the last stair and hurried to the kitchen. She wanted nothing more than to be upstairs caring for the earl but she’d not missed the look her father had shot her.
As she set about making the toddy, all she could think about was Declan stretched out in the bed. Her body tingled with wanting to crawl beneath the covers with him to warm him, to enfold him in her arms and hold him against her.
By the gods, she wanted him so badly it made her teeth ache. She knew it would happen—it had to—but what then? Could she entice him with more than just her body? Could she win his heart? Could she make him fall in love with her? Ask her to be his mistress?
“If only I could,” she said as she poured a large amount of whiskey into the tankard then added a dollop of butter.
Every maiden dreamed of her white knight swooping down on his prancing mount to sweep her into his arms and carry her away to a life of luxury and ease. She was certainly no different. Her dreams had always been filled with gallant suitors wearing the finery of gentlemen. She fantasied of living in mansions filled with servants and all the trappings of wealth.
What would it be like to be the mistress of a man like Declan Farrell? Or his wife?
That thought made her hand shake as she reached for the tin of whole cloves. Where had such an idea come from? She wondered. She had gone from thinking of herself as a mistress—something she hadn’t ever wanted—to thinking of herself as a wife, something even more foreign to her thinking.
She took several cloves from the tin and dropped them into the tankard. “Could I really win him if I tried hard enough?” she mumbled, putting the tin back and taking another tin with ginger root in it from the shelf.
Cutting a small piece off the ginger root, she paused with it over the rim of the tankard.
“He’s interested,” she said. “Definitely interested and I would love him as no other woman ever has or could.”
She dropped the root into the tankard then plucked the honey pot from the counter to add a few spoonfuls to the brew before adding the hot water from the kettle.
She’d always heard the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but she suspected Declan Farrell needed more than just nourishment of his body. She sensed he needed nourishment of his soul and encouragement, and she intended to see he got both.
* * * * *
Dec was chilled to the bone—which was odd since it was July and the weather had been hot as hell. He eyed the shirt on the chair and reached for it.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” the landlord said.
“I hate being a bother,” Dec told him.
“You aren’t,” the man replied. He picked up the shirt, shook it out then handed it to Dec.
Slipping his arms into the sleeves of the soft shirt, he looked over at the sodden mess his wet clothing was making on the floor.
“Never mind your clothing, Your Grace. I will see to it.”
“Declan.”
The landlord smiled. “Declan,” he repeated.
“Patrick, wasn’t it?”
“Paddy to my friends.”
“Dec to mine.”
The man’s smile widened. “And are we to be friends, then, Dec?”
“I hope so.”
Paddy nodded. “So do I.” He reached for the britches. “Want these?”
“Aye,” Dec said. “My arse is freezing.”
Politely looking away as his guest threw the covers aside and lowered his legs to the floor, Paddy walked over to the wet clothing. “You should not go about unarmed,” he said. “Especially with the likes of Captain Penry and his men lurking about.”
“My pistol and rapier got lost when I fell,” Dec said, stuffing his legs into the britches.
Paddy looked around—turned back quickly for Dec had not pulled the britches up his thighs. “Where did you fall?”
“In the gods-be-damned river,” Dec said. He left the top button of the britches undone then scrambled back under the cover, trying to keep his teeth from clicking together. “Rather I was tossed in there when my mount shied from a clump of debris that touched his leg.”
“Were you hurt?” Paddy inquired. He picked up the clothing and turned to face Dec.
“My pride more than my body although I’ve got a nasty bruise on my hip where I landed on a rock.”
The fall had happened as he was walking his horse down into the river to the cave. The Rysalian was skittish when it came to anything touching its legs, and as soon as the floating debris swirled around it, the horse reared. Dec had tumbled from its back, hitting the rocks underneath the water. His sword got caught between the rocks and he was forced to unbuckle his baldric and leave it. Cursing, he stumbled to get up, fell again—his pistol falling out of his waistband—and had to scramble like mad to catch the reins of his mount before Warlock turned and fled back up the slippery incline to get out of the swirling water. As quickly as he could he pulled the horse into the Black Chasm Hole and kept him still and quiet as the riders chasing them thundered over the bridge.
Then the hoof beats had stopped.
“He can’t have gone far,” he heard Jasper shout. “Span out. Check the trees.”
“How ’bout the cave?” someone asked.
“He has better sense than to go in there,” Jasper replied.
Apparently not, Dec though. For nearly twenty minutes he stood hip-deep in the waters rushing past his legs with his hands clamped around Warlock’s muzzle to keep it from making a sound. In the dark with seven riders passing over and back across the bridge, shouting to one another he realized just how dangerous his situation was. The waters were rapidly rising, frothing through the cave from the torrential rains that had begun the moment he had fled the keep. He didn’t have that long to get through the cave to the far opening. Fear that the waters would continue to rise and drown both him and his horse was very real. Thankfully the gods had been with him and he had gotten them both out just moments before a thunderous wave of water came barreling toward them to completely fill the cave entrance.
“Thank the gods you weren’t hurt any worse,” Paddy said. “Is there anything I can get for you? If I know Bess, she’s already brewing you up one of her gods-awful hot toddies.”
“Bad?”
“The absolute worst,” Paddy replied. “But they work. Just gulp it down as quickly as you can. That’s the trick.” He started to leave then stopped. “She’ll probably want to rub your chest with camphor.”
“I don’t think…”
“Let her,” Paddy said. He looked Dec in the eye. “Trust my daughter to know what’s best for you.” He smiled slightly. “And her.”
* * * * *
Angrily, Royce drummed his fingers on the top of the table as he stared at the door leading into the kitchen. He forced himself to sit still when every instinct in his body screamed at him to go in there and speak to her. He did not want her anywhere near Declan Farrell, but he didn’t see how he could prevent it. The bastard was a guest in her father’s establishment and she was the only servant. With Farrell upstairs in one of their rooms, he posed a problem that had to be met head-on.
“Rain’s slowing down, Captain,” Sergeant Breslyn said. “When do you want to ride out?”
“When I am good and gods-be-damned ready,” Royce snapped. “I will let you know when I am.”
“Aye, sir,” Breslyn acknowledged.
He saw his men putting their heads together—no doubt gossiping about him—but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the woman, who at that moment, left the kitchen and turned toward the stairs. He was halfway out of his seat when her father met her at the first step. They looked his way and he sat back down.
“Damn him to hell,” Royce said under his breath for the landlord was coming toward him.
“May I get you a refill on your ale, Captain?” the man asked—politely enough, although there was no warmth whatsoever in his black eyes.
“No,” Royce replied then threw in a “thank you” simply because that was what one did and not because he meant it.
“Please feel free to stay as long as you like,” the man told him. “This weather is good only for fish.”
Royce nodded. “I hope you took to heart what I said about your guest upstairs,” he couldn’t prevent himself from saying.
“Concerning?”
He leaned forward in his chair with his hands clasped together atop the table. “Declan Farrell was cashiered out of the regiment for conduct unbecoming,” he stated. “He is a rogue, a miscreant, a libertine of the highest order. It is not safe for a young woman to be left alone with him.”
“I trust my daughter, Captain,” the man stated. “If she thought His Grace presented a danger to her, she would have told me.”
“Yet she’s up there with him again,” Royce said, wincing at the bitterness in his tone.
“She took up a toddy to stave off a cold. She’ll be down soon.”
“If not, I will fetch her down myself,” Royce declared.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I am fully capable of taking care of my daughter, Captain,” the man said. “Have no fear on that account.”
That said, the bastard turned and walked away, stopping at the table where his men were lounging.
Grinding his molars, Royce decided he had all the authority he needed to go up the stairs and question the landlord—as well as his daughter—about whether or not they suspected one of their patrons of being the thief he was after. He placed his palms on the tabletop to push himself up at the same moment the door opened and seven men came trooping in from the rain. He recognized one of them and sat back down again.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” the landlord said, beaming at the new arrivals. “Sit wherever you like.”
“We’re looking for His Grace, the Earl of Dungannon,” Jasper Burrows, Duke Edward’s warden stated. He looked about the room. “His horse in in your stable.”
“May I ask who is inquiring about His Grace?” the landlord inquired.
“That’s the duke’s hound,” Royce spoke up.
Jasper pivoted his eyes toward the speaker then scowled. He turned his gaze back to the landlord. “I am Burrows, His Grace’s warden at Arlington. Where is the earl?”
“Upstairs,” the landlord replied. “He has rented a room for the night.”
“He’ll not be staying the night,” Jasper said. He reached into his pocket. “How much does he owe you?”
“And why pray tell won’t he be staying, Burrows?” Royce inquired. “Did his daddy send you to fetch his wayward little boy?”
“The earl is suffering from chills and fever,” the landlord explained. “He is in bed.”
“With the landlord’s daughter taking a gods-be-damned long time to fetch the bastard a hot toddy,” Royce stated.
Every eye turned toward the ceiling.
“Oh,” Jasper said. He put his hand up and coughed. “I see. Then I will wait until she comes down before going up to speak with His Grace.”
“If you would like me to go up…” the landlord began but the big man in front of him was shaking his head.
“I’ll wait,” he said and motioned the men with him to seat themselves. “I’ll take a pint if you please, landlord.”
“Patrick,” the man replied, extending his hand.
“Jasper,” Burrows provided.
“Why are you after him, Burrows?” Royce inquired, leaning back in his chair. “What’s he done now?”
“His father has business with him,” the big man replied.
“So he sent you and six other men to bring him to heel?” He folded his arms over his chest. “Interesting.”
Completely forgetting about the landlord’s daughter taking far too long to do what she had gone to do, Royce began to realize there was more to the matter of Burrows being sent to find Farrell than met the eye. If the man hadn’t done something to piss off his father, then mayhap he was in trouble that required protection.
“Trouble of what sort?” he mumbled under his breath.
A potential abduction for ransom? That happened all too frequently among the peerage. An irate husband coming after Farrell with a loaded pistol or sharpened rapier? That wasn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
Or was it more serious than either of those?
It certainly bore some investigation, he thought.
* * * * *
Bess took the cup from her patient and set it on the bedside table. “I have also brought a pot of camphor, milord.”
“To slather all over my chest,” he said with a grimace.
“It does help to keep the more dangerous symptoms from developing,” she told him.
“My mother swore by it,” he said.
“Would you like me to…?”
“Might as well,” he said, cutting her off. He lowered the covers and sat forward to pull her father’s shirt over his head.
She reached into the pocket of her apron for the small crockery jar filled with the oil. She unscrewed the lid and when she looked up again, he was naked from the waist up.
“My back, too?” he asked, looking up at her.
She dropped the lid, couldn’t seem to find her voice for she was staring at thick, hard muscles that were stacked up and down his chest, upper arms that were bulging with muscles. The little patch of hair between his breastbones drew her eye like a magnet.
“Milady?” he pressed.
“Aye?” she whispered.
He reached out to shackle her wrist, causing her to jump. His strong hand was clamped lightly around her flesh and his eyes were boring into hers when she tore her scrutiny from his chest.
“Do you want to rub that gods-awful smelling stuff on my back as well?” he asked and she wondered if he was aware his fingers were caressing her wrist.
“I should,” she answered, staring into those wicked blue eyes.
“There are a lot of things you should do,” he said huskily and his hand moved up her arm to her elbow then down again—his palm sliding over her skin.
“Things I would love to do, milord,” she said.
He tugged on her hand and she had no choice but to sit down on the bed beside him or fall across his bare chest.
“Declan,” he reminded her.
“Mayhap this isn’t the right time,” she said.
“And who decides whether it is or not?” he asked and lifted his free hand to cup the side of her face. “You? Me?” When she didn’t answer, he slid his hand along her cheek then behind her neck to pull her toward him
“No,” she said and pushed him away.
He blinked. “No?”
She put her hand to his forehead. “You are burning up. I’ll not have it said you caught your death of cold at the Hound and Stag,” she told him. “‘T’would be bad for business.”
His lips parted. He looked as though he was about to say something, thought better of it and slowly lay back down.
“Thank you,” she said. She poured a portion of the oil in her palm, set the jar on the bedside table then rubbed her hands together to warm the oil. As she did, she happened to glance down and saw the tenting under the coverlet.
Slowly she lifted her gaze to his.
They stared at one another for a long time.
She put her oily palms to his chest.
He growled low in his throat.
She started rubbing the oil into his skin.
“Milady, you have no idea what you are…” he began then stopped. He squeezed his eyes closed. Sweat was glistening on his forehead.
“I know it’s terrible, but it is good for you,” she assured him.
“So good for me,” he said under his breath.
He shivered and his eyes popped open. There was such heat in them, such intensity, she stopped moving her hand.
“Come away with me,” he said in that throaty tone that did such delicious things to her body.
“What?” she gasped.
“Leave this place and come away with me,” he told her. He took her wrist in his hand once more. “We can sail to Ionary, to Virago, Oceania. Anywhere. I will find a priest to marry us and…”
She snatched her hand out of his grip. “A priest? Marry?” she asked. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we could get married.” He reached for her hand again but she jumped up from the bed and put a good ten feet between them.
“It’s the fever talking,” she stated. “The fever has taken hold of your mind and…”
“I know precisely what I’m saying, Bess,” he said. “From the moment I saw you, I wanted you.”
“Aye, that may be, for I want you, too, but to tempt me with marriage just to have your way with me is cruel,” she snapped. “And unnecessary.”
“Will you just listen to me?” he asked, throwing the covers aside. He started toward her just as the door opened and her father appeared.
“There are men below who have been sent to find you, Dec,” he said. “The one named Jasper is insisting on speaking to you.”
“Bloody hell,” Dec cursed.
“Bess, you need to go downstairs,” Paddy said.
“I asked her to come away with me, Paddy.”
Her father nodded. “Understandable given the situation you find yourself in,” he replied.
Bess saw her patient’s forehead crease.
“Jasper told you?” Dec asked.
“No, it was a man named Micah,” Paddy replied. “I overheard him talking to one of the soldiers. He told him it was the reason they had been chasing you.”
“Chasing?” Bess asked, turning back to Dec. “What did you do?”
“It’s what I won’t do,” Dec replied.
“What does that mean?” Bess asked.
“It means his father wants him to marry a woman he doesn’t want to marry,” her father said. “So he thinks by running away with you he can get out of it. Once he is safely out of the country, he’ll leave you high and dry.”
“I’d never do that. Why do people always think the worst of me?” Dec asked.
“Perhaps it is the reputation you have nurtured, milord,” Paddy replied. He came further into the room, lowered his voice. “You and I both know you are a dangerous man. A man who lives a perilous life. I wouldn’t be much of a father if I allowed my daughter to tie herself to such a man.”
“Papa…”
“Go below and see to our guests,” her father ordered. When she hesitated, he pinned her with a stern look. “Now, Elizabeth.”
* * * * *
Dec was feeling lightheaded and his knees were threatening to give out on him so he backed up to the bed and sat down.
“Is the woman to whom you are engaged that terrible a catch?” Paddy inquired.
“First of all, I am not engaged to her,” Dec stated.
“That is not what I heard.”
“You heard wrong.”
“No, he did not,” Jasper said. He had come in at some point and was leaning against the doorjamb.
“I am not engaged to that woman,” Dec denied.
“Then how do you explain the banns being posted on the front doors of the churches in Oxmoor and Arlington?” Jasper queried.
That was a blow Dec had not been expecting. Maybe a right cross or left hook from Patrick Arbra’s meaty fists but not the hit Jasper had thrown. He thought he might well lose the hot toddy he’d drank.
“When was that done?”
“This morn. The dukes’ signatures are on the papers along with their seals,” Jasper replied. “As soon as Duke Edward found out you had managed to flee the keep, he had his horse saddled and he rode over to Oxmoor to seal the deal.”
“This can’t be happening,” Dec groaned. He ran his arm over his sweating face.
“You look awful, milord,” Jasper said. “Why don’t you lie down? It’s started up raining again and I can’t take you back in this condition.”
“Just as well ’cause I have no intention of going back with you,” Dec mumbled.
“Then we’ll be staying until the weather is clear,” Jasper said. “And this time, there’ll not only be men outside your door and under your window, I’ll have one up on the gods-be-damned roof, too.”
“Wasn’t expecting that, were you?” Dec said as he climbed under the covers. He grimaced as the sheet stuck to the oil on his chest.
“Climbing down the wall, aye, but not up it and across the roof,” Jasper replied with a shake of his head. “’Twas a right dangerous thing you did.”
“I’m a dangerous man, ain’t I, Paddy?” Dec mumbled.
“Would appear more so than I originally thought,” Paddy agreed.
“Mayhap I should bring a cot in and sleep in the room with you to make sure the danger is past this night,” Jasper suggested and Dec saw him wink at the landlord.
“Mayhap you would like to look for other employment if you try that shit,” Dec told him.
“We should let him rest,” Paddy said. “I don’t believe he’ll be going anywhere tonight.”
Jasper nodded then pointed a finger at Dec. “Best you get plenty rest. You’re gonna need it when you get back to Arlington.”
Dec stuck his hand out from under the cover to extend a rude reply.
* * * * *
He had a raging cold the next morning. When Bess brought him in a light meal of coffee and oatmeal he frowned at it for he had no appetite. One look at the grey lumpy mess in the bowl and his gut rebelled.
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. He put the bowl on the bedside table.
She put her hands on her hips. “Why not?” she demanded.
“Starve a cold and feed a fever,” he told her.
“Nice try, but it is feed a cold and starve a fever,” she corrected and promptly laid her palm to his forehead. “And you have no fever thanks to the toddy.”
They were alone in his room although he half expected Jasper to walk in at any moment. He had to make his move before he did. He reached up, hooked an arm around her waist and brought her down to the bed—his lips to her ear.
“I need you to go to the stable and let my horse out the back way,” he said. “Just whack him on the arse and say ‘the cave.’ Make sure no one sees you doing it.”
She pulled back to give him a perplexed look. “Why would you want your horse to…?”
“Just do it for me, Bess, and fetch me my clothes while you’re at it,” he insisted.
“They’re still damp,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter. I need them and I need my father’s men to see you bringing them up to me. Will you do that?” He searched her eyes. “Please?”
She pursed her lips. “Anything else you need me to do?”
“Does your father have a horse?”
“We both do,” she said.
“Then I’ll need to borrow yours. I’ll return it tonight.”
“Tonight?” she repeated.
“Can you leave the side door unlocked?”
“For what purpose?”
“For me to come inside when I return your nag,” he said. “That is if you don’t mind sharing your room with me for a day or two.”
Her lips parted and her eyes widened. “Without Papa finding out? I don’t know if…”
“I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse. He won’t know I’m here.” He put up his hand and crossed his heart. “I swear it.”
“Are you him?” she asked.
“Him?”
“I washed your clothes, milord,” she said. “It would have been hard not to notice the claret velvet lining of your coat or the fact that it can be turned inside out and worn that way.”
“Many a coat has a velvet lining, milady,” he stated.
“With a black silk handkerchief stuffed in the pocket alongside a tell-tale silver dollar that is the Gypsy’s trademark?” she challenged. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll ask again: are you him?”
Dec shook his head. “It would be folly for me to admit such a thing to you. Dangerous, as well.”
“You think I would betray you to the soldiers?”
“Dangerous for you, milady. You could be held as an accomplice,” he replied.
“Papa knows who you are,” she said. “He found your coat hanging on the line in the kitchen and pulled it down, turned it inside out so the lining wouldn’t be seen lest that nasty Penry or one of his men happen to come in.”
“Bess, this is something we should not be talking about,” he said, eyeing the door lest someone be listening.
“Your secret is safe with me,” she told him. “With us. What you are doing is a godsend to many a poor family. No one would ever betray you to Penry.”
A light tap at the door prevented him from warning her not to be discussing her suspicions of him even with her father.
“Come,” he snapped and gritted his teeth when Jasper entered.
“Sun is shining and it’s nice and warm out,” Jasper declared. “You need to get dressed, milord, and let’s be heading home. The men are eating and as soon as they’re done we’ll be saddling up.”
Dec looked at Bess, scrunched his forehead in pleading and hoped she understood the gesture. Her long sigh told him she had.
“I will fetch your clothes, milord,” she told him. She winked at him before she left.
“A right comely lass,” Jasper said, watching her go. “A fine cook, too.”
“Am I to be a prisoner at the keep until the Joining day?” Dec asked, not liking the way Jasper had looked at Bess.
“I imagine that might well be the way of it,” Jasper replied.
Dec flinched. If I have anything to say about it there won’t be a gods-be-damned wedding, he thought.
The sound of the stable door squeaking open made him tense. If that was Bess slipping into the stable to do as he’d asked, he prayed no one was about to see her’.
“You need to eat that, milord,” Jasper said, nudging his chin toward the oatmeal. “You’re gonna need your strength.”
The wicked, knowing grin that tugged at the beefy man’s face made Dec want to put his fist through it, but he nodded and reached for the bowl. He brought it to him, dug the spoon into the glop and lifted it to his mouth. It was all he could do to shovel it into his mouth but when he did, the taste was an unexpected treat. Maple syrup underscored the pleasant taste of well-cooked oats.
“See what I mean about her cooking?” Jasper asked. “The lass can even make mush right tasty.”
He all but inhaled the oatmeal as Jasper stood there beaming at him then held the bowl out to him. “I need more of that,” he said.
“Be my pleasure,” Jasper said. “You’re too pale by far.” He took the bowl and was whistling as he skipped down the stairs.
“You’ll be whistling out the other side of your mouth in a few minutes,” he said under his breath. He grinned at the guards who were peeking in the door at him and told them to shut the portal.
A few minutes later, Jasper opened the door, stepped back to let Bess enter the room ahead of him then brought the second bowl of oatmeal to Dec.
“Your clothes are a bit damp,” she told him as she laid them carefully at the foot of the bed.
“They’ll dry on the ride,” Dec said. He took the bowl from Jasper and toasted her with it. “Really good goop, wench.”
She laughed. “I’ll leave you to gum it, then, milord.”
“Leave me to eat in peace this time, Jasper,” Dec said. “I’ll get dressed when I’m finished.”
“Need any help just yell,” Jasper told him. “The guards will look in on you.”
Dec nodded and shoved a big spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth, smiling around it as he chewed.
The door closed and he was up faster than a musket ball. He ripped off the shirt and pants, tossed them to the bed then donned his breeches, shirt and coat as quickly as he could. Fetching his boots, he pulled them on, looked for his hat, retrieved it then went back to the window. He opened it, peered out, nodded to the two guards standing below then ducked his head back in. He dropped to the floor, stretched out and rolled under the bed, pulling the covers down to hide him from sight. After adjusting the covers on the other side of the bed, he lay there with what he knew was a nasty grin.
* * * * *
“Where the hell did he go?”
Jasper’s loud voice echoed through the room.
He lay there listening to the stomping of feet—one heavy pair right by his head as Jasper hurried to the window.
“How the fuck did he get past you?” he yelled down to the men below.
“Who?” one of the men called back.
“The earl,” Jasper bellowed. “Who the fuck else were you supposed to be guarding?”
“Didn’t come up here,” someone else said, and Dec knew that had to be the man on the roof.
“Are you fucking sure?” Jasper barked.
“Aye, well, I think so. I had to take a piss but…”
“Get your arse down here and help us find him. Lucas, check the stables. If that big black bastard is gone, so is he,” Jasper ordered.
Jasper ran from the room, hissing at the guards flanking the door to check every room in the inn.
He figured he had maybe five minutes before Jasper and the others rode out in search of him. Once they found Warlock gone, they would figure—as he intended for them to—that he had managed to get out of the inn, to his mount, and flee. As soon as he heard them galloping away, he would hurry downstairs, to the stable and take Bess’s horse. He had no doubt Jasper would split the men up—half going east and the other half west to search for him. If that proved to be the case, he would head south toward Arlington. That would be the last place they would think he’d go.
* * * * *
Bess and Paddy stood in the doorway of the inn as Jasper Burrows and his men galloped out of the inn yard.
“Where is he?” Paddy asked.
“I truly don’t know,” she said.
“I saw you sneaking out to the stable and I saw what I reckon was his rider-less horse tearing out across the meadow. Did you set the horse free?”
“Aye, Da,” she answered.
“Was he waiting out there?”
“I don’t think he ever left,” she said. “I think he’s still inside.”
“Most likely he is.”
“He asked to take my horse,” she told him.
“Then you’d best get it ready for him. I’m curious to know where in my inn he is hiding that all those men couldn’t find him.” He turned to go inside. “Be quick about it, Bess. If we’re going to help him, we’re going to do it the best way we know how.”
“He is who we think he is, isn’t he?” she asked softly.
“Aye, I’m afraid he is,” her father replied.
Paddy knew there was nowhere below the stairs for the earl to hide. That meant he was somewhere in one of the rooms. He put his foot on the first step at the same time the young man appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Are they all gone?” he asked.
“Aye,” Paddy answered. He put his hand on the newel post. “Where were you hiding?”
Dec smiled as he came down the stairs. “Under the bed.”
“Under the…?” Paddy grunted. “That would have been the first place I would have looked.”
“Jasper doesn’t have much of an imagination,” Dec told him. “Do you have a pistol I can borrow?”
Paddy frowned. “Aye, I suppose you should have one. It’s under the bar.” He went to fetch it. He bent over, retrieved the pistol and a box of shells, pushed them across the bar to Declan. “It kicks to the right so you’ll need to adjust your aim.”
“Much obliged,” Declan said, sticking the pistol into his waistband. He put out his hand. “Thank you for not telling them I was still here.”
Paddy took his hand. “I had no idea that you were.” He covered their clasped hands with his other one. “You are merely postponing the inevitable, son.”
“I have no intention of being forced into a marriage I don’t want,” Dec said then eased his hand from Paddy’s. “Would you do it if it were you?”
“Like you, I was given no choice. Mine was an arranged marriage, but I learned to love my wife with all my heart,” Paddy said. “The day she died—the day Elizabeth was born—was both the worst and best day of my life. We never know what fate has in store for us. It could be the lady in question is the love of your life. How do you know?”
The door to the inn flew open and Bess stood framed on the threshold. Her eyes were wide. “The soldiers are coming up the lane.”
“Go,” Paddy said. “If they see you and run into Jasper, they will tell him.”
Dec rushed past him, Bess moved out of his way to let him leave but as he came abreast of her, he swept out his arm, jerked her to him and kissed her hard.
“There is no time for that,” Paddy said sternly. “And you’re going to give her your bloody cold.”
“Meet in the stable at nine of the clock tomorrow evening,” Dec said.
“She’ll do no such thing, now go!” Paddy insisted.
Bess stumbled as Dec released her. He ran from the inn and into the stables.
“Nothing good will come of the two of you meeting,” Paddy told her as Dec raced out of the stables and in the opposite direction of the advancing soldiers. “It is a dangerous game he plays.”
* * * * *
Bess kept glancing at the tall floor clock that sat at the end of the taproom. As the hands moved closer to nine, her father became more watchful—seeming to never take his eyes from her. He would not allow her to go into the kitchen or alone or into the main hallway. He kept her in his sight at all times
But he did not see her unlock the side door before they left the kitchen after cleaning up for the night. As she climbed the stairs, the clock struck midnight and the hoofbeats of the horse of their last customer faded away.
“Do not leave your room,” her father told her. “I want your word of honor that you will stay in your room until it is time to get up tomorrow morn.”
She nodded obediently for she knew what he did not. At some point the side door would open and a silent figure would slip into the kitchen. A dark shadow would quietly climb the stairs, enter her room and spend the night.
In her arms—if the gods were willing.
“I will hear you swear to me, Elizabeth,” her father insisted. “Swear to me you will not leave your room ’til morn.”
They had reached the landed.
“I swear it, Papa,” she said, walking to her room.
“It may be a bit stuffy in your room this eve. I have locked the shutters on your windows,” he told her.
“Why?”
“You know why,” he said. He gave her one last look then entered his room and closed the door.
She stood with her hand on the latch for a long while—her eyes glued to the darkness that rippled down the stairs. She wondered where he was at that moment. Was he close by? Was he waiting until the lights were out in her father’s room?
A sudden thought shuddered through her mind and she reached out to take hold of the door jamb.
What if his father’s men had found him? What if her horse stumbled, fell and threw him? What if he were lying in a ditch—hurt, in pain or worse?
Fast on the heels of those thoughts were images of him robbing a stage. Of a musket firing. Of a musket ball hitting him. Of him tumbling from his own horse onto the highway. Of blood spreading over the crisp white of his jabot. Of him whispering her name then taking one last breath.
“Stop it,” she hissed.
“Why aren’t you in your room, Elizabeth?” her father asked through the closed door of his room.
“I’m going,” she muttered. Could the man see through walls?
She went into her room, closed the door then leaned against it. Her heart was racing because of her horrible thoughts. She could barely draw breath for the lump lodged in her throat.
“Go about your business as though it were an ordinary night,” she said and put her hands to the buttons of her gown.
He would come. She had to believe he would.
And she would be waiting for him.
Her dreams—and his freedom—depended on them being together.
* * * * *
There had been within the papers he had stolen from the diplomatic courier a notation that a certain government operative would be traveling under cover of night on his way to the palace in Boreas. There would be something of value on that man’s person and Dec was determined to take it. As he’d lain awake the night before sweating the fever from his body, he had gone over the plan he’d devised to do just that. Though he ached from the cold that made his nose run, eyes water, and tonsils ache, he was at the point in the man’s journey where an ambush would work best.
He’d left Bess’s mare tucked safely in a copse of trees two miles away and was sitting bareback astride Warlock as he waited impatiently for the bastard to ride by. Not for the first time did he regret having left his saddle behind at the stable or remembering to remove the one from Bess’s mare. His rump was going to be sore come morning.
“Stop bitching,” he told his inner voice.
The pistol was primed—the three revolving barrels of the flintlock resting on his thigh. He caressed the trigger, anxious to be finished with his business and on his way back to the inn.
Warlock shifted beneath him—a warning that another horse was nearby. Putting aside his longing for the sensual body of the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, he tugged the black silk kerchief into place over the lower portion of his face, pulled down the brim of his cocked hat and when he saw the rider coming, moved his mount out from the shadows of the rowan trees under which he’d been sitting.
Out into a strong ray of moonlight that lit the purple moor.
“Stand and deliver,” he told the startled rider.
* * * * *
At two of the clock, moving as quietly as one of the grey clouds passing overhead, he led Bess’s mare to the stable and tied her beside the trough. He led his own beast into the shadows at the side of the inn. Looking up, he saw a faint light in her window and knew she was waiting for him.
Opening the lid to the wooden box that held kindling, he laid the rapier he had taken from the man he had robbed earlier and the pistol he’d borrowed from Paddy inside. They would be safe there and he could not risk them making any noise as he entered the inn.
Easing the door latch up, he gently opened the side door and with much practice, skirted the edge and moved silently into the kitchen. Just as carefully he closed the door behind him and stood listening.
Not a sound came from the inn save the tick-tick-tick of the great clock and the now and then soft pop of settling timbers, yet he remained where he was until he was satisfied there was no one waiting for him below stairs. Quietly, he eased to the floor, sat down and pulled off his boots. When he stood—boots in hand—he walked to the kitchen, moved swiftly through the taproom to the stairs. With infinite care, he put his hand on the rail, one foot on the far side of the first step and pulled himself up. He put his other foot on the opposite far side of the second step and moved up the stairs—careful to balance his weight only on the strongest part of each stair so there would be no squeaking beneath his weight. Once he gained the landing, he stood still again and listened. The rhythmic cadence of a man’s snore told him Paddy was fast asleep. Stealthily he made his way to Bess’s door, found it open a crack and soundlessly pushed it open slowly.
She was sitting up in bed with the lamp beside her only a dim glow. Her hair was unbound—flowing around her shoulders—and as black as midnight against the snow-white gown she wore. Her welcoming smile made his heart race.
He returned her smile, bent down to place his boots just inside the room. He closed the door gently behind him and with extra care ran the barrel of the lock through the hasp. With the door secure, he turned to face her and peeled off his coat as he walked toward the bed.
As quiet as he was being, as silent as the room was, he heard her shuddery breath as he removed his coat then laid it aside. He undid his jabot, tossed it aside then pulled the tail of fine linen shirt from the waistband of his pants. Even in the near darkness he could see the hot gleam in her beautiful eyes as he worked the buttons through his fingers.
Her lips parted as the sides of his shirt separated and he shrugged it from his shoulders. He let it fall behind him to the floor. He put his hand to the belt he used to hold his gun, pulled the leather from the tang then slipped the buckle.
In the faint light he watched her tongue curl over her bottom lip and had to tamp down the groan that threatened to leave his throat. His cock was hard as stone behind the fall front of his breeches. It was straining at the fabric and literally sprang free when he undid the two buttons of the front.
A gasp brought his head up—both of them—and he put a hasty finger to his lips and gave her a low shush.
Her eyes were wide as saucers as she stared at him and he grinned. He knew what had surprised her. He had been told by every woman he’d ever bedded that he was larger than any man with whom they’d ever slept. It was a source of vanity for him as it would be to every other man graced with such an organ. That he’d been taught well how to ply it was another source of pride.
Shouldn’t be.
But it was.
Unbuttoning the waistband of his breeches, he kept his attention riveted to hers. Hers was directed at his crotch. He pushed the breeches down his hips and stepped out of them then peeled off his stockings.
Naked—his shaft leading the way—he went to the bed. One knee to the mattress was as far as he got before she reached out to take hold of him.
No shy miss was his tavern wench as she all but pulled him onto the bed with her by his very root.
“Mine,” she whispered as he fell atop her.
“Yours,” he whispered back. He wanted to kiss her, needed to kiss her, ached to kiss her, but her father’s words to him intruded. He had no desire to give her his cold.
Her hand was wrapped around his straining cock. This—he thought with a wide inner grin—was going to be one hell of a ride.