It Takes a Hero (21 page)

The lad had leapt into the clash with the reflexes of a pickpocket and was even now swiftly retrieving a narrow, wicked looking knife from his boot. The lad hadn't grown up in London's roughest neighborhood without his fair share of scrapes and fights, able to respond with the deadly assurance of a battle hardened veteran.

Perhaps Pymm had sent the boy to Rafe for reasons other than the cost of his upkeep. To see that there was always someone to watch his back. To keep this Danvers brother safe, as he had failed Orlando so many years ago.

"How dare you!" the major blustered. He twisted at Rafe's grasp, but was unable to break free. "This is none of your concern."

"When it comes to striking a lady, it becomes my concern," Rafe said, in a voice that brooked no resistance. "For like Colonel Posthill, I too have no use for cowards."

Harrington's eyes blazed wide, his brow a furrowed line across his forehead. But like most recreants, he knew when to cut his losses. So instead, he sent Rebecca a scathing glance and snorted. "Found another champion, have you? Wonder if he'll be as constant as the last one—your faithless Lieutenant Habersham."

The man's words caught Rafe unaware.
Another champion?

Harrington used the moment to his advantage. His free hand dove into his jacket and produced a pistol. "Now I'll say it again, Mr. Danvers. Unhand me."

Like hell
, Rafe wanted to tell him. For while he had a healthy respect for a loaded pistol, when Harrington had dared to raise his hand to Rebecca, something inside of Rafe had snapped.

Like a bolt of lightning, his anger had ripped from his heart and torn asunder his equilibrium. And now it had him willing to face fire to right her world. To protect her.

"Major Harrington!" Lady Finch cried out from the doorway where she stood with Lady Kirkwood.

The countess took one wide-eyed glance at the entire proceedings and started to waver in faint.

Made of sterner stuff, Lady Finch waded into the fray looking quite capable of murder herself. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, Basil!" Mrs. Harrington pleaded. "Please, what are you doing with a pistol? At a dinner party, of all places? Think of the scandal. Think of Charlotte's future, her reputation."

The man hazarded a glance at his daughter's shocked and tearstained face and growled. "Bah," he spat, yanking his hand free of Rafe. He glowered for a moment longer, then shoved the pistol back into his jacket much to the relief of everyone in the room.

After straightening his coat, he ran a hand over his brow, smoothing out his features before he faced their irate hostess. "My apologies, Lady Finch, for this unseemly display. But I find your choice of guests," he said, shooting another glance of loathing at the prone form of Colonel Posthill, as well as one last dismissive glance at Rafe, "to be lacking in manners." He spun on one heel and called to his wife, "Muriel, Charlotte, gather your things, we are leaving."

But Rafe wasn't done with him yet. He caught the major by the shoulder and stopped him. "Sir, what did the colonel mean about you and Codlin?"

Harrington shook himself free. "None of your business."

Mrs. Harrington was already in tears.

"Your temper has ruined us," she railed as the major stalked from the room, leaving Charlotte and her no choice but to follow along in his angry wake.

Lady Finch glanced over at the fallen form of Colonel Posthill. "Dear lord! Is he hurt?"

"I don't think so," Rebecca told her, her hand patting his.

Rafe dropped to his knees and examined the injured man. The tiles on the floor were cold and not the best place for a man of his age to lay. "He should be taken upstairs where he can be tended to," he said. "Can you arrange that, Lady Finch?"

"Yes, of course. Immediately!"

"No!" Rebecca said so adamantly that he and Lady Finch turned and stared at her.

"I only mean that—" she began, biting her lip for a second. "I meant to say… I just think, well, that it would be better if he were taken home."

"Nonsense!" Lady Finch told her. "He can have the second best guest room upstairs." She waved at Addison to start making the arrangements.

Rebecca rose abruptly. "My lady, your offer is very generous, but I think in his state that if he awoke in unfamiliar surroundings it may agitate him further."

Lady Finch appeared about to argue when Colonel Posthill struggled up, catching hold of Rebecca's arm. "Trotter! Trotter, where are you? The devils have breached the walls and I've been hit, good lad!"

Rebecca winced and then knelt beside him again. "We are well and safe, uncle. You merely stumbled." Her glance to everyone else told them quite clearly not to contradict her. "Just try to relax."

"Must stop them before they reach the armory," he clamored as he struggled to gain his feet, only to waver and fall back. "I appear to have been more gravely wounded than I first suspected." He glanced over at Lady Kirkwood. "Brandy, Ensign Trotter. Fetch the bottle from my tent and be quick about it."

Lady Kirkwood's eyes grew round.

"Uncle," she whispered, "that is our good neighbor, Lady Kirkwood, not Ensign Trotter."

His eyes narrowed. "I say, what is she doing here? A spy for the French?" This time Posthill managed to stagger to his feet and teeter over to the countess. "
Parlez-vous français?
"

"
Oui, monsieur
," Lady Kirkwood replied.

The colonel's gaze swung back to Rebecca. "Aha! French, just as I thought!" he declared. "Seize this fellow! We've been infiltrated!"

Lady Kirkwood's hand went to her throat as she gasped. Lord Kirkwood stepped in front of his wife glowering not just at the colonel, but also at Rebecca.

"Miss Tate," he said, "your uncle is in need of more than just a spare bedroom to see to his ills. The man is unsound."

Rebecca looked about to offer another set down and Rafe didn't think a second confrontation was necessary so he stepped forward. Again.

This was becoming a bad habit, he decided.

"Colonel Posthill," he said. "I think it is time we all retired for the night. May I escort you back to your tent? That is for your safety, sir."

"Harrumph," the colonel snorted. "I hardly think I need your advice. Why, I was picking off those rebellious colonials before you were sucking at your nursemaid's teat." He stepped back and swayed unsteadily. "Hmm. Seems I've had too much to drink. Perhaps I could use some assistance to find my bed. Won't be much help to the regiment in the morning if I'm face down in some ditch."

"Exactly, sir," Rafe told him. "I'd be more than happy to escort you
and
Miss Tate home."

He guided the old man out of the room past a glaring Rebecca.

If she was outraged now, he could assure her, her mood wasn't going to improve once they reached her cottage.

For Rafe wasn't going to leave until he had some answers.

Rebecca seethed the entire ride home. A half an hour to become increasingly indignant at the very presumption of Rafe Danvers.

And that didn't even include her outrage at her uncle. Blast his hide, he'd gone too far tonight.

Men! she wanted to sputter as she stared out the window and ignored the pair of them, though she was hard pressed to succeed in that endeavor. Rafe and her uncle were seated side by side singing a rousing Spanish song that she suspected the translation wasn't in the least bit proper.

She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. Oh, she hadn't minded when Rafe had stepped between her and Major Harrington or how he'd come to her uncle's defense, but now she wanted him well and gone.

There was too much at risk and too much to be gained to allow him to delve into their secrets.

When they arrived at the cottage, Mrs. Wortling greeted them at the door wearing her wrapper, her hair sticking out from her nightcap, and a stubby candle in her hand. "Is 'e in his cups?" she asked, eyeing the colonel, then Rafe, with a skeptical eye.

Rebecca considered asking the woman the same question considering the copious cloud of liquor that came wafting at them as she spoke.

"He is not drunk, Mrs. Wortling," she replied, walking into the house.

The lady held the candle higher. "He looks it. And I'll tell you right now, I'm not cleaning it up 'iffin he starts casting up his accounts all over."

"The colonel was injured, madame," Rafe told her, sweeping past the housekeeper and into the house, guiding the colonel with every step.

"Up the stairs, the last room on the left," Rebecca told him.

"Injured?" Mrs. Wortling asked. "Did he shoot at someone again?"

"No," Rebecca told her. "It was Major Harrington. He argued with the colonel and knocked him out."

Mrs. Wortling rolled an extravagant glance heavenward as if she bore the terrible burden of all of their problems. "Did you warn the major not to come within range of the cottage for a week or so? I'll not be blamed if yer uncle blasts him all the way to Sussex."

"Mrs. Wortling, is it?" Rafe asked from where he stood at the foot of the stairs. "Why don't you go seek your bed. There isn't anything more you can do tonight. And I'll see to the colonel's welfare."

"Harrumph," the woman snorted, as Rafe helped the colonel up to his room. "Oh, he's a high and mighty one. Ordering me about." She glanced up at his retreating figure on the stairs and sniffed. "Mark my words, Miss Tate, make sure the colonel is all that man sees to. He has the look of getting what he wants from a lady without so much as a 'by your leave.' I'd get the colonel's cannon ready, if I were you."

"I assure you, Mrs. Wortling," Rebecca told her, "I won't need the cannon to be rid of Mr. Danvers."

And as much as she wanted to believe her well meant words, when he came downstairs, his dark gaze melted her resolve.

No, Mrs. Wortling had been entirely wrong about Mr. Danvers.

She'd need an artillery unit to protect herself.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Danvers," she said as primly and politely as she could. She held the door open, and let her gaze sweep outward, hoping he'd take the hint and move in that direction without asking her any of the questions burning in his eyes.

"If you think I'm leaving without some answers, you are more addled than your uncle."

Rebecca chewed on her lip.
Damn him
. Why did he have to meddle into business that wasn't his concern?

But it was
. The moment Harrington had slipped about their connection to Sir Rodney, their secrets had fallen into Rafe's domain.

Especially with the money the Company was offering to have the embarrassing case solved.

"I don't know what you mean," she brazened. "Now, I bid you good night. I'd like to see that my uncle is resting comfortably," she said, stepping back into the house and starting to close the door in his face.

His hand shot out and he stepped forward faster than Ajax dashing in from a rainstorm.

"Not so hasty, Miss Tate," he said. "I'm not going to be dismissed so easily."

Her heart wanted to believe that it was more than just the reward that held his interest. Then again, perhaps spending the evening in Miss Honora's company had her seeing heroes where there was only a bounder.

"Major Harrington seems convinced you are all in danger. Why is that?" he asked.

"Perhaps that is a question better posed to the major," she told him, still pushing futilely against the door.

"I'll tend to him first thing in the morning," he said in that dogged tone of his that seemed to underline his tenacious resolve.

"Then I suggest you go seek your bed and get a good night's rest, for that interview will be sure to tax even your determination."

"It isn't Harrington that I'm worried about."

He was worried about her? Rebecca paused and met his gaze. Whatever was he doing looking at her like that? His strong jaw set in a steely purpose, his lips, both hard and forgiving, drawn together into a daunting line. He was mesmerizing in his masculine power. No man should be so tall, so handsome, so magnificent of form.

Not even Lt. Throckmorten was so perfect, and she'd drawn him from the deepest secrets of her heart.

And as he looked down at her, he sent a quiver down her spine that whispered of passionate resolve and she realized truly how little she knew of men. This one in particular put her insides into a tangle of hot and distressing longings.

"I don't see that… I mean to say, you needn't—"

But she wanted him to! Wanted him to catch her up and carry her off to some secluded bower and promise her that she would be safe forever more.

Then in gratitude she let him ravage her with his lascivious passions that would leave her delirious and eventually, sated.

Oh, botheration, she was starting to script her life like she was the heroine of her own novel.

"This isn't your concern," she told him.
I'm not your concern
.

"I beg to differ. Someone should be looking out for you. What were you thinking challenging the likes of Harrington? You could have been hurt." He heaved a sigh and then raked his fingers through his hair. "What if I hadn't been there to stop him?"

"But you were," she whispered, amazed by this show of emotion—all over her. Rebecca Tate, the spinster of Bramley Hollow.

There was a telltale rustle in the kitchen.

"Mrs. Wortling," she whispered as he stared over her shoulder. "She's most likely eavesdropping."

His eyes narrowed and then without a word, he drew her outside the cottage and into the garden, far from an ear pressed to the door and prying eyes.

She went with him, pulled along despite her resolve to resist his charms.

Avoid his kisses.

The moon had risen and shone its magical light down the path. He caught her in his arms and pulled her close.

"Demmit, what am I going to do with you?" he muttered. For a moment he stared down at her, and she felt both his hunger to taste her lips again and confusion over this uncommon passion that seemed to bind them together.

She could sympathize, she didn't understand it either.

Desire it, oh, yes, but understand this inexplicable thread between them? Hardly.