Gail Eastwood (11 page)

“If you won’t mind a little mud on your firewood, I can wait,” Gillian offered gamely.

The trio gathered what seemed to Gillian a tremendous pile of sticks and branches to fuel their fire. They discovered a source of stones in a nearby brook, where Gillian attempted to wash off a little of the offending mud. As they returned to the camp, Gillian stopped to retrieve some appropriate clothing from the bags in the curricle.

There was no need to be uncomfortable for the night, she reasoned, carrying the leather satchel and a pair of Gilbey’s old breeches into the bushes. She shivered as she removed her upper clothing and unbound her breasts. Her flannel nightrail could serve for a shirt, and would be warmer besides. She had another waistcoat, although it probably would not button now. The boy’s stable jacket she had worn in Taunton would have to serve again for a coat.

She sat down on leaves and twigs to remove her muddy boots and stockings, then quickly got up again to finish changing. The ground was damp, and there were probably insects crawling among the leaves. She felt absurdly exposed and vulnerable. Who was there to see her? Fallow deer? Foxes? She smiled at her own foolishness, but hurried nonetheless.

Leaving the satchel, she took her muddied clothes down to the brook and washed them. If she spread them near the fire, with luck they might be dry by morning. She sniffed. She could not detect any hint of wood smoke in the air and wondered why Gilbey and Brinton had not yet managed to start a fire.
Men!
They always thought they knew what they were doing. She picked up two more stones to add around the fire and started back toward the clearing, carefully holding the rocks and the wet clothes away from her.

She stopped before she reached the camp. She heard voices, and they did not belong to her brother or Lord Brinton. Who could have joined them? Cautiously, she peered through the greenery.

“Cooperation is your best choice, gentlemen,” she heard a man say. Her throat tightened, and her breath came a little harder. Had Orcutt managed to follow them, after all? She could not see well, but she did not think it was his voice.

“Throw your valuables into a pile just there, and we’ll be off with no harm to you. Don’t be foolish now.”

Thieves! She shifted her position to try to see better. How many were there? What should she do?

In the deepening twilight she made out the figure of one man, a little distance from her, who appeared to be holding a pistol. Was there only one? But he had said “we.”

“My watch was already stolen in Taunton,” she heard Gilbey say. “So was my purse, and I have nothing else.”

“Right, squire, we believe that.” The low, growling response came from very close to Gillian, startling her further. She moved her head carefully, trying to see through the leaves. She discovered that another man was standing with his back to her, almost directly in front of her.

Were there only two? How dare they! Anger began to rise in Gillian as she thought of the losses she had already been made to suffer. With her heart pounding, she cautiously set down the rocks and the clothes she had been carrying. Any small sound might betray her presence. Crouching, she peered under the bushes and tried to gauge the distance between her and the thief with the pistol. He was pointing it at Gilbey and Brinton, who were standing together. If she hit him with a stone, would not the pistol discharge? Yes, but if she could manage to hit the pistol, or the hand holding it, the shot would be off. What about the other man then?

Gillian wrapped her fingers around the larger of her two stones, feeling its cold smoothness and trying to steady her nerves. Her throwing ability was respectable. Even if she missed altogether, the crash of the rock landing across the clearing would still serve to distract the scoundrels. Quickly she formed a kind of plan, reaching for the wet breeches with her other hand. Watching carefully where she put her feet, she stepped back from the brush to give her arm clearance.

Gillian threw the rock, sending a prayer along with it. At the moment she heard the report of the pistol, she burst through the bushes, flinging the wet breeches over the head of the closest robber.

Brinton and Gilbey reacted with admirable promptness. The earl rushed at the first man, who had lost the pistol and was searching frantically for it in the leaves. Gilbey dived toward the other man, who was struggling with the wet cloth over his face.

Gillian jumped nimbly back into the bushes, where she could stay safely out of the way. She watched Brinton dispatch the first man with a tremendous uppercut to the jaw. He retrieved the pistol and turned toward Gilbey and the other thief.

“Stop!” the earl commanded.

The two clearly mismatched wrestlers paused, and Brinton used that moment to wave the pistol. Gilbey sprang away from his heavyset opponent, moving to Brinton’s side.

“Well done, lad,” the earl said. Motioning with the pistol just as the thieves had done to him, he forced the heavy man to join his partner, who was sitting up and rubbing his jaw.

“Gentlemen—and I grant you the term is a gross misstatement—we ought to detain you and see you handed over to the local magistrate. For private reasons of our own, we choose not to do that. If you have any wits, you will gather them quickly and depart. I suggest that you put as much distance between us as you possibly can, before we change our minds.”

The miscreants did not appear even slightly grateful, Gillian noted from her position in the shrubbery. The heavyset man helped the smaller fellow to his feet, and they both treated Brinton to a murderous glare before they began to move off toward the brushy area where the horses and curricle were concealed. A sudden shout from that direction revealed the unexpected presence of a third scoundrel.

“Pull it, boys! Shake a leg, or the devil take ye!”

The two thieves took to their heels. Exchanging a look of misgiving, Brinton and Gilbey sprinted after them. A moment later, Gillian heard curses and the sound of three horses galloping off.

Gillian emerged from her hiding place and ran to catch up with the others. The earl and her brother had not gone more than twenty yards.

“Are they gone?” she asked, coming up behind the two men.

“Oh, yes, they are gone,” Gilbey answered, turning to face her. “They have gone, and they have taken our horses with them.”

Chapter Eleven

A thick, quiet darkness had settled into the woods all around the clearing where Brinton and Gilbey had finally built their fire. As the last traces of daylight faded from the sky above, stars were just beginning to show.

Gillian had helped to place the stones around the firepit, but she was notably inattentive and listless. Now she sat apart from the men, staring silently into the crackling flames as the earl and Gilbey assessed their situation.

“They got the portmanteau, and they would have had your valise if they had not dropped it,” Gilbey was saying.

“I think we will be sharing my meager wardrobe,” Brinton agreed, nodding. “It was a most unfortunate turn of events. Had it not been for your sister’s bold intervention, however, it could have been much worse.”

Brinton thought Miss Kentwell was unusually quiet. She looked very lovely with the glow of the fire lighting her face. She also looked small and lost and very fragile.

“Miss Kentwell, I confess I am in awe,” he called to her, “but I do not know if it is more in admiration of your pluck or fear of your possible insanity.”

When he got no reply, he asked Gilbey, “Is she all right?”

“I think she needs to eat,” Gilbey said in a low voice. “Now that I consider it, none of us has had anything since we stopped at Tewkesbury this morning.”

“Perhaps if I take something over to her?” Brinton ventured. “You are looking a little the worse for your wrestling match with our large friend.”

Indeed, Gilbey’s pale skin was already beginning to look purplish along the cheekbone under his left eye. He shifted as if unable to find a comfortable way to sit and nodded.

The earl rose and went to fetch the saddlebags. “I thank God I had already taken these off my horse,” he said, returning. “We would have gone very hungry tonight, indeed.”

As he and young Cranford removed the contents from the bags, he added in a low voice, “I am afraid we ought to keep watch tonight. We can spell each other.”

Gilbey looked at Brinton in alarm. “You think we might have more trouble?” There was a reproachful note in the lad’s voice, although he made no further comment.

Brinton suspected there were a good many things the twins might be wanting to say to him by now. Neither had yet confronted him over the issue of his uncle, for instance. But then, they had all been rather distracted.

He shrugged. “It occurred to me that those thugs might come back. They were surprised and angry, and they ran off before they realized I had not, of course, been able to reload or prime the pistol.” Gilbey was staring at him as if he, too, had only just realized it. “I don’t suppose that you or Miss Kentwell had, in fact, a pistol in your baggage, as you intimated in Taunton?”

“No,” answered Gilbey, with obvious regret. “Even if we had, it would be far from us now.”

“I see.” Brinton was studying Gillian again. “The books,” he said suddenly, turning to Gilbey. “Which bag were they in?”

Gilbey groaned, which would have been answer enough. “The portmanteau. How I wish now they had been in the other.”

No doubt that loss is adding to Miss Kentwell’s misery
, Rafferty thought, but he said nothing more. He divided the cheese, bread, and sausage and handed a selection of everything to Gilbey, tossing him an apple for good measure. Then he carried some food to Gillian.

“Eating cannot solve our problems, but at least it can help,” he said, squatting beside her. “Not eating, of course, only adds to them.”

She turned her head toward him without lifting it. “I am so very tired, and my head aches. Please leave me alone.”

Brinton pried her fingers from where they lay folded over her elbow and gently pressed the apple he had brought her into her hand. Then putting his fingertips under her chin, he raised her head. “Your brother says you need to eat, and I agree. You will feel better.”

For several moments he did not move. He was lost again, staring into her liquid blue-green eyes. They seemed huge and luminous in the firelight and overwhelmed his senses so that all other reality dropped away. He quite forgot how shocked he had been by her attack on the robbers. In the depths of those eyes, he could read her sadness and despair. He wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms, to feel her and to give her his warmth and his comfort.

He knew he must not. He pulled back his hand quickly.

“I’ve brought you these,” he said, his voice husky. He dropped her share of the food into her lap. “We also have chicken to finish roasting,” he persisted when she didn’t touch them. “You’ll need something to drink; would you prefer claret, or ale? I am afraid those are the only choices.”

She shook her head, and Rafferty felt the momentary frustration of a parent coaxing a recalcitrant child. He would not lose control of himself, however. He would get her to eat.

“If you do not begin to feed yourself, Miss Kentwell, I shall be obliged to assist you,” he threatened. He found the idea rather appealing.

He raised an eyebrow suggestively. As he suspected she might, she straightened up immediately. Glaring at him, she bit decisively into the apple.

He smiled in approval. “Claret or ale?”

“Claret, I suppose.”

“Good, then. We’ll share it between the three of us. I should warn you, however, that this tavern is short of drinking vessels. We shall be forced to pass the bottle around like peasants.”

***

Gillian raised the claret bottle to her lips for another drink. Even though it was almost empty, she still needed two hands to steady it, How was one supposed to take ladylike sips when the wine had such an unfortunate tendency to slosh pell-mell into the neck of the bottle all at once? She choked down a rather large gulp, and with a small cough handed the bottle back to Brinton.

Her brother had had his fill of both dinner and drink. The men had said something about keeping watch, and Lord Brinton had offered to take the first turn. Gilbey had wrapped himself in his greatcoat and lay near the fire, already asleep, or nearly so. She envied him. Was he not the least bit bothered by all that had happened?

She doubted that she would sleep this night, unless the wine wrought a miracle. Her eyes kept straying to the darkness beyond the fire’s dancing shadows. The woods at night seemed far less friendly than the flowering wonderland she had so admired that afternoon. Was it only because Brinton thought they needed to keep watch? Her ears were fixed on the forest around her, but all she heard was the innocent rustling of new leaves in the treetops and the distant babble of the brook.

She pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders. Where was Brinton? She felt a moment’s panic before she realized that the earl had moved away from the fire to bury the remains of the chicken they had eaten. He had already carefully repacked the saddlebags with the food they were saving for morning.

She stared into the dwindling flames of the campfire. Why had he hidden that he was Grassington’s nephew? She hated to admit she had begun to trust him. He had rescued them so many times now, she was starting to think that Gilbey must be right. Why else would he go to such lengths to help them, unless he was protecting his interest in his inheritance? He had not planned to leave Worcester with them, yet how quickly he had changed his mind!

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she tried to banish them, stifling a sniff. It was too ironic, being stranded here with him. Everything had gone awry from the moment she and Gilbey had left their home. Had she been so wrong to challenge her fate? She had gambled, trading a secure future of potential misery for nothing more than a dream of freedom, love, and safety in a place she had never even seen. Now the empty woods around her seemed to mock her choice. She had lost everything. Here in this wilderness, there were no links remaining to either the life she had left behind or the one she had hoped for.

The tears in her eyes threatened to overflow, and she brushed at them angrily with her hand.
Stupid chit!
she scolded herself.
Sinking into a well of despair! Utter nonsense
. But despite her attempt to rally, she could not shake off the mood that gripped her. She jumped when she suddenly heard Brinton’s voice beside her.

“I was going to offer you more wine, but I think you have greater need of this at the moment.”

She glanced to the side without moving her head and saw that he was squatting beside her, offering his handkerchief. Somehow the very ordinary civility of his gesture pushed her tears over the edge.

“Too late,” she replied in a choked voice as the flood began to cascade into her lap.

“Never too late,” he said with a smile, and as he had done earlier, he lifted her head toward him. Very slowly and deliberately, he began to dry her tears.

“What is all this now,” he said soothingly. “Can this be our intrepid heroine, turned into a watering pot? You must know that things are never, ever, as bad as they seem.”

Despite the teasing edge to his words, his voice was deep and soft, comforting her like warm wine. His words and touches held an intimacy that she knew she should not allow, yet she seemed spellbound as he gently wiped the traces of moisture from her face.

“Is this the miss who spent a night in an orchard while all of Devon turned out to look for her?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You must never lose hold of your courage. It is a very precious gift.”

She felt his hazel eyes studying her. Did he truly think she was courageous, rather than foolhardy? Her tears had stopped streaming down, although she could feel them clinging to her lashes and lingering treacherously in her eyes. She could not seem to push any words out past the lump in her throat, however. She shook her head.

The fingers he had held under her chin moved slowly up to brush back a tendril of chestnut hair from her cheek. “Is this not the same fearless miss who throws rocks at villainous robbers and attacks brigands with wet clothing? You are not going to tell me you are afraid of the dark?”

In the flickering firelight he looked very much the rogue she had seen in Taunton. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes, and his unruly dark hair straggled over his forehead. The day’s growth of beard shadowed his jawline and upper lip. His smile was infectious, and Gillian managed to produce a very small one of her own in response.

“Better, much better. You needn’t be afraid, you know. Your brother and I will keep watch all night.” His fingers trailed down from her hair to trace the smile on her lips.

His gentle touch sent fire racing through her veins so suddenly her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened in surprise. She realized that the ache of despondency in her heart was melting, rapidly giving way to a very different sort of ache.
No! Not again
. Yet she could not stop it.

Anxious lest he detect her reaction, she tried to find her voice. “But what would you do if someone came?” she finally blurted out. “We haven’t any weapons! In fact, we haven’t
anything
!—no walls to protect or shelter us, no beds to comfort our sleep—no table to eat upon, nothing to eat with! We haven’t even any way to leave!” She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. “It is my folly that has brought us all to this.”

Brinton, who had dropped onto his knees when he first began his ministrations, now took Gillian firmly by the shoulders. “If we are here through anyone’s folly, it is certainly not yours. Your uncle is to blame, and perhaps mine is as well—not to mention interfering Bow Street Runners, desperate thieves, and possibly even myself. Besides,” he added softly, his eyes on hers, “you are wrong, you know. We have everything here we could ever need.”

She looked at him sharply, wondering what he could mean and how she could continue to resist him. She believed he was toying with her, yet still she wanted desperately to throw herself into his arms. She could not allow herself to be swept up in his spell. Instead, she said, “Have we lost your wits along with everything else?”

He released her abruptly, leaving behind a burning impression of his hands that spread warmth to her very toes. He gave her a smile that seemed full of regret “That might explain a great deal,” he admitted.

Leaning his weight back on his heels, he said, “We are not so badly off as you might think. We have food and a warm fire and a fine night to camp under the stars. Had you noticed them?”

Gillian looked up at the display over their heads. The warm glow of the campfire did not reach the tops of the trees, which stood darkly etched against the velvet night sky. A vast array of stars stretched beyond, carelessly flung by some invisible hand. The beauty was both breathtaking and humbling.

The earl’s tone became playful. “It is true we had our meal without utensils, but we have a handkerchief.” He held it up and waved it about. “How civilized do we need to be?” He began to fold it, apparently satisfied that there would be no more tears.

“I am surprised that you should be concerned about our defenses when we have an ample supply of rocks,” he continued brightly. “I would like to know how you came to have such an expert arm.”

“Desperation,” she replied. “That, or practice throwing hats.” She summoned another small smile to hide her chaotic feelings. This unkempt and playful earl was so different from the stuffy authoritarian she had so disliked! “I must confess, I wish now that I had hit the fellow in the head! Gilbey and I had lost so much already . . .”

She paused, but the words continued to tumble out, as if there was no stopping them, now that she had begun. “We brought so little, and now everything is gone—Father’s watch, our clothes, everything! All of my mother’s songbooks were in that portmanteau and my best shawl. It seems so cruel, and of what use are these things to anyone else?”

“I did not mean to make light of your loss,” Brinton said soberly. “I would give anything to be able to restore them to you. But I did not want to see you so disheartened. You have more pluck than many men I know. You must not allow these setbacks to defeat you. Surely your memories of your mother, and indeed, of the songs in those books, are still safely locked in your mind and your heart?”