Kiss the Earl (9 page)

As they continued down the road, and Ella found herself really getting into telling Patrick the story of her favorite hero, she wondered what the heck she was doing. Why did it matter if Patrick believed her? Well, for one thing, if he thought she was crazy, he might not help her try to find someone to send her back home.

And even though she was enjoying his company, she most definitely had to get home. He was getting married, and she needed a hot shower.

Desperately.

He had to admit that Ella was made of stern stuff. Despite her wet clothing, she didn't utter a word of complaint. Not even when the clouds covered the sun, turning the pleasantly warm morning into a comparatively chilly midday. He urged them on faster, saying something about worrying clouds of dust in the distance, but all he really wanted was to reach the next posting inn and get her some dry clothing.

It was a good thing he was rather plump in the pocket. He was spending an alarming number of groats on garbing the poor girl.

But she was certainly entertaining. Her stories of Admiral Action were wonderfully intricate, true, but her explanation of the leaps in science and medicine were truly incredible and remarkably consistent. He couldn't help but hope that she was right. He'd love to see a world in which sicknesses were cured with such ease. And having seen so many men fade after being bled, her assertions that the practice was not only dangerous but also barbaric definitely rang true to him.

Bacon snorted as a fat raindrop landed on his neck. Patrick glanced skyward, and his fears were realized. The clouds overhead were thick, darker than the sea at night. If Miss Briley's garments had managed to dry out some, they were about to find themselves rather thoroughly re-wetted.

“Patrick, I think it's starting to rain,” she said, echoing his thoughts.

“You are correct. Can you manage a gallop? There is a posting inn not far from here.”

Ella nodded, sitting up straighter. “Anything to get off this horse for a while. No offense, Kipper.” She patted the horse's neck. “I'm going numb here.”

With a small smile in Ella's direction, Patrick nudged Bacon's sides, and then the two were flying down the road. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder, gratified when he saw Ella and her mount on their heels. Ella was holding the reins tightly, but giving Kipper her head. She leaned close to Kipper's neck, and the determined expression on her face was wonderful. Perhaps he was a good teacher after all. Ella had proved herself willing to learn about how to become a competent horsewoman. She was bright and funny and beautiful, even wearing his coat.

Fortunately for his sake, the inn came into view after only a ten-minute gallop. Thinking of her so favorably was doing things to his insides that he could ill afford. He must keep his focus on finding Amelia.

This inn was much smaller than the one they'd been to the night before, and as Patrick dismounted, he wondered what story he should relate. Perhaps he should call Ella his sister? Not very believable, since she was as dark as he was fair. Hitching Bacon's reins to the post beside the stables, he crossed to Ella's side to assist her.

“Man, I'm so glad to be getting down,” Ella said as Patrick reached for her. “Seriously, I can't feel my backside anymore.”

Patrick trained his gaze on her face, trying not to let her words rattle him. She gripped his shoulders and he carefully helped her down. Her skin was so warm beneath the dampness of her dress. Ah. He really should get her a change of clothing.

“Come with me,” Patrick said, offering her his arm. “I shall hire us a private parlor and have them stir the fire.”

She smiled up at him with an angelic expression that made her eyes sparkle. “That sounds amazing. Thanks.”

He gave a curt nod and started toward the inn. It didn't take long for him to realize exactly how badly she was limping.

“Your foot still pains you.”

It was a statement, not a question, but she answered anyway.

“Kind of. I think it got wet in the stream.”

Of course. When Kipper had stumbled, the water had gone high on the horse's sides. Her boots were probably filled with water then, soaking the bandages. That had been hours ago. Surely that couldn't be good for her scratches and that particularly nasty puncture.

Without asking her permission, Patrick swept her into his arms. His long strides ate up the distance between them and the door.

“I can walk.”

“Hobble,” he corrected, turning to push backward through the door.

“Fine, then. I can hobble.”

“There is no need.” Patrick deposited her on the chair by the door and then continued into the darkness of the taproom. “I shall return momentarily.”

He spoke with the innkeeper, who assured him that a private parlor could be readied for him and his sister immediately, as well as a dry change of clothing for the young miss. Patrick gave his cousin's name, just in case Baron Brownstone's men were to come this way. All bows and conciliation, more than likely due to the number of groats that greased his palms, the innkeeper rushed off to prepare the parlor personally.

“Not to worry,” Patrick said as he reentered the room where he'd left Ella. “We shall have you warm and dry in only a…moment.”

Ella's chin had fallen to her chest, which was rising and falling with slow, even regularity. Her arms were crossed over her belly, the too-long sleeves of his coat covering her hands. Pink stained her cheeks, and worry threaded through Patrick.

He stepped closer, leaning forward slightly. Was she feverish? Lord knew he'd seen enough men die in the Peninsula from a fever. It was a dangerous thing.

He didn't wish to startle her, but he needed to know if she was ill. He held his breath as he reached forward—just to touch her cheek, and then he'd know…

Startled blue eyes met his just before he touched her.

“Ohmigosh, I'm sorry.” She laughed, pulling back from his almost-touch. “I must have dozed off. Sorry about that.”

“Are you feeling quite well?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just tired.” She stood but couldn't quite cover her wince when her weight descended on her foot. “Let's go find that fire.”

Patrick followed her, promising himself that he'd watch her closer than a hawk after its prey. If she were to become ill, it would be all his fault. And he would not let that happen.

Where was that innkeeper with her dry clothing?

* * *

When Ella was about thirteen, she'd come down with the flu. Her body had felt heavy, achy, almost like it had been made of lead. Really old, painful, burning lead. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. Her mom had even taken her to the ER, she'd been so sick then.

And she'd die before she admitted it to Patrick, but she was starting to feel like she had right before she'd come down with that monster flu—tingly, almost like she was starting to put on weight, but just in her extremities. And the feeling seemed to be seeping upward from her foot. She tried to keep from limping, but her foot hurt. Worse than it had last night—much worse. Stewing in that boot with funky creek water all day couldn't have been good for her wound, but she didn't want to think about that.

To distract herself from the worrying ache, she looked around. There were two maids scurrying around the half-empty taproom, serving food and drink to people as they sat and talked, polite laughter echoing in the small room.

Limping through the doorway that Patrick indicated, Ella let herself smile at the sight that greeted her.

There was a long window on one wall, which let in as much natural light as you could expect on a day that had turned grayer than dryer lint. White curtains hung there, giving the dark-paneled room some much-needed light. A small table and four chairs sat in one corner, right beside a small but growing fire on the hearth. Ella was drawn to the flames like a moth, and she allowed herself a good, hard shiver.

She hadn't felt warm all day.

“I requested that the innkeeper find you some clean clothing,” Patrick said, clasping his hands behind his back.

She turned her head to thank him, but the way he was staring at her made her pause. His brows were lowered slightly, a crease between them. The corners of his usually smiling mouth were downturned, and there was tension in his broad shoulders.

It was almost as if he were worried about her.

“Thank you,” she said in as cheerful and normal a tone as she could muster. “I really appreciate that. It'll be good to feel dry.”

She held her hands out to the orangey flames, watching as they danced. The shadows bounced against the blackened back wall of the hearth, and Ella stared them down, hoping she could find some kind of peace there.

“You did quite well today. I apologize for the harm that came to you. That was my fault.”

She rounded on him. “No, it wasn't. It was mine. Nothing that has happened to me was anything you did, so shut up.” It was a huge lie, but she wouldn't allow him to blame himself for this.

His brows rose impossibly high. “I beg your pardon?” The corner of his mouth rose, like her demand amused him. She wanted to throw something at him for laughing at her, but at the same time, she kind of wanted to laugh too.

Facing the fire, she bit her lip. He couldn't worry about her—she didn't want that. Well, she did, but she shouldn't. Distraction—until the innkeeper showed up, she needed a distraction.

“Amelia,” she said, not turning to him as she spoke. “You must care about her a lot.”

The low scraping of a chair brought her head around. Patrick had moved one of the seats from the table and placed it just behind her. She sank into it gratefully.

“I do,” he said simply.

Ella sighed. She wasn't sure what she'd been hoping for there, but it was certainly a lot more than a simple affirmation. Oh well.

“How'd you meet her?”

Slow footsteps creaked through the room as Patrick walked toward the window. From her vantage, Ella could watch him from the corner of her eye. Thoughtful of him, really. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window into the now-drizzling rain as he answered.

“As I have told you, her father, the baron, owns the estate next to mine. Well, not mine—it was my father's at the time.” Patrick's hand wandered to his pocket, and he pulled his pocket watch from it. Rubbing his thumb over the cover, he continued. “When I met her, she was just a tiny girl, a slip of a thing with a head full of curls and a precocious attitude. She took me prisoner that day, and it amused me to humor her. She is my best friend, and I worry for her. She's never stopped with her mad schemes and her daring demeanor. She may have come to true harm, and I couldn't bear that.”

And with those few words, Ella felt the tiny shred of hope she'd been nursing at the back of her heart curl up and die. Of course she'd had a crush on him. What girl wouldn't? He was handsome and probably rich, and he'd swept her off her feet. Twice. Mrs. Knightsbridge, curse her matchmaking heart, had a history of sending people back in time to find their true loves, the ones they could spend their lives with.

Just Ella's luck that she'd be the one who got sent and fell for a guy who was already spoken for.

“Then we've got to find her,” Ella said simply, staring deep into the heart of the fire. “Let's talk strategy. We're going to go to your home and check hers too, right? Then what?”

“Well, the vicar—” Patrick started, but a knock on the door just then interrupted him. “Pardon me one moment.”

Ella turned and watched him open the door. The innkeeper was there, with a small sack of items, but there was a concerned look on his face.

“Thank you,” Patrick said, stepping aside to allow the man entry. “You may put those on the table, and then we'd like some luncheon.”

“Of course, Sir Iain,” the little man said, scuttling inside the room and carefully placing his burden on the table. “I am sorry to bother you, but I must ask a question. Are you sure you are the baronet Sir Iain Cameron?”

Ella looked down at her lap, trying to pretend she wasn't interested, but she listened as hard as she could.
Crap.
It seemed like Patrick's cover story might be falling apart. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Patrick drew himself to his full height.

“Of course I am. Do you doubt the word of a peer? I say, I am not used to this sort of impertinence.”

The innkeeper gave three bows, each in quick succession, tripping over himself as he apologized. “Of course, sir, my apologies. I must have been mistaken. I never meant no harm or offense, and—”

“Tell me why you doubted me.”

Whoa. Patrick could sound pretty tough when he wanted. Ella dropped any pretense of ignoring the scene and turned to take it in. Patrick's face had gone darker than the clouds outside the window, his eyes glittering with temper. That was something she hadn't expected. He was so polite, so nice all the time.

“It's nothing, sir. I am so sorry. But there are some men here, you see, men that are looking for someone. A baron's daughter has gone missing, and she's presumed to be in the company of a man who's rumored to look like you, sir. I wouldn't have presumed to ask, but there is a reward for information on this gentleman, you see.”

Ella's stomach dropped, and a cold sweat started to pop out on her brow. She looked frantically back at Patrick, but he was as cool as a chilled cucumber salad in December.

“Rumors, my dear sir, are something that I do not have time for. Now please, my sister is famished. Do not keep us waiting further due to scurrilous gossip that has less than naught to do with us.”

“Of course, sir, of course. One moment, and I'll have a feast fit for a prince here for you. One moment.” The innkeeper backed out of the room, the tips of his ears burning red with embarrassment.

“My God,” Ella whispered after the door shut. “You were fabulous.”

Patrick sank into a chair, staring at the door. “We are in bigger trouble than I thought, Miss Briley.”

Ella swallowed, wincing inwardly at the burn in her throat. Well, he was right, but she wasn't about to tell him how right he was.

Some things were probably better left unsaid.