Powder of Sin (35 page)

Now she wished she’d been
brave and stubborn enough to ask him about the discontent spreading
through his mill. Truthfully, she had only wanted to enjoy the
freedom of her father’s estate after years at the girls’ academy.
She’d been glad to pretend nothing was wrong.

The man, her rescuer,
tucked away the pistol and folded his arms, waiting for
something—for her answer perhaps.

“
If my family…my father
and I. If we are so unpopular, why are you trying to help
me?”

“
He hired me yesterday to
keep him and you safe.”

Kitty snorted.

The man’s response
startled her. He laughed. “True enough I’ve done a wretched job of
it. I had no notion that I’d been summoned to an already lit keg of
powder.”

Summoned? Of course he
wasn’t from around here. There was no trace of the thick local
drawl in his words. He sounded educated, with only the hint of an
accent, perhaps from London.

Her head still hurt but
she had to stay alert and not lie down. She tried to make out his
face in the gloom but he turned away and went to the window
again.

He had an air of barely
suppressed violence but it was not directed at her, at least not at
the moment. Kitty felt brave enough to say, “My father said nothing
of hiring a guard.”

“
I expect he didn’t want
to upset you.”

“
Is that what he told
you?”

“
Not entirely.” The man
sat on a stool next to the door and leaned his back against the
wall, his face in shadows. “He said you were only interested in
fashions and foolishness and wouldn’t heed him anyway. And he said
he didn’t want you worried.”

She drew the shawl tighter
and wished she could curl up on the pallet again. The man’s words
rang true. Her father never wanted her to worry—or to allow her to
worry him.

From the shadows, the man
seemed to study her. She wished she could see his features. “Do you
believe that I was hired by your father?” he asked.

“
Please, sir. I’ll be
fine.”

“
I doubt it. Do you hear
that noise?”

She shook her
head.

“
Listen.” He fell silent
and then she did hear it—the faint sounds of distant
shouting.

“
We cleared the house for
now, not too much damage. A small fire in one of the drawing rooms.
They’re outside the gates of the estate. But it’s not over yet. The
whole village is calling for blood, Miss Samuels.”

She swallowed the thick
fear in her throat. “What happened?”

“
Two workers died this
week in accidents at the mill. Both were under fifteen.”

She closed her eyes for a
moment and waited for the nausea to pass. “I didn’t know,” she
whispered.

“
No. Of course not.” He
sounded dismissive. “I didn’t either, or I wouldn’t have come north
for this mess. My men are going to be mistaken for your father’s
bully boys.”

“
Bully boys?”

“
He’s tried to keep the
mill workers quiet with force. Don’t tell me you don’t
know.”

Kitty didn’t bother to
explain—that she knew nothing of the mill and very little of the
village where it lay. She’d been away at school and, during her
holidays at home, her father never spoke of work. His cardinal
household rule was once he walked through the gates of the estate
at the end of the day, he left business behind.

The man opened the door
and paused. “No need to look so stricken, miss. This can’t last
much longer. I’ll wager the military will be along to settle things
down.” No missing the scorn in his voice. “You wait here,
understand? Don’t make the situation more difficult by showing your
face out there.”

She didn’t bother to
answer.

After he left, she
explored the small hut, peering into the dark corners, searching
for a weapon and something to wear over her ruined gown.

The room seemed to be some
sort of gardening shed. Picking gingerly through spider-infested
piles of rubbish, she couldn’t find anything that resembled a
garment. The only possible weapons were a small hand rake and a
sharp shard of pottery. Her useless riding habit had no pockets, so
she tied a corner of the shawl into a pouch to hold and hide the
weapons. After checking the door and discovering it didn’t lock
from the inside, she dragged the stool to the center of the room
and sat.

The shouting seemed to
grow louder, as if the crowd surged through the iron gates and up
the gravel drive. Or perhaps she only listened harder, trying to
discern the words.

When the door opened, she
jumped to her feet.

“
Easy,” the man said. He
waved a hand toward the gate. “They’re still down at the bottom of
the drive. No point aggravating them, so I guess we’d best make our
way to some building to wait ‘em out. The guest house will do.
There’re signs they’ve searched it, so they’re less likely to
return. We’ll stay there until they go home. Likely they’ll get
bored in the night, with no one to fight back.”

“
The men my father hired?
The, um, bullies?”

“
Gone. One of them got
badly injured. The mood’s ugly. But not so desperate or bad they’ll
go against my men.”

“
Why are your men so
special?”

She caught a flash of
white when he half turned toward her and grinned. “They’re not.
They’re well-armed and calm. You ready?”

She nodded.

“
Best put that shawl up
and over your head,” he said. “Not too many women around here have
stylish hair.”

Stylish? Perhaps when she
started out this morning, but she’d lost the jaunty feathered cap
and her hair had lost most of its pins when she‘d been pulled off
her horse.

Kitty had to brush past
him to go out the door. She bowed her head so she could avoid
looking into his face but still felt the raw power of his large
body and wondered if she sensed his anger—trapped in a bad
situation he hadn’t expected. That made two of them, she thought as
they walked in silence. Or perhaps the tension came from him as he
focused his full attention on the woods of the parkland they had to
cross to get to the guest house.

The door to the house
stood open. The guest house had actually served as the dower house
for the noble family that had owned the estate until her father
bought the large stone pile and its acres of land and outbuildings.
The house had the cold, unaired smell of mold and mice. Dust covers
draped some of the furniture, making ghostly shapes. Some of the
furniture was uncovered and smashed—the mob searching for loot or
her, no doubt.

Kitty made her way through
the gloom to the matches and picked up the enameled box next to a
kerosene lantern.

“
No. No light,” the man
said. He pulled out a ring of heavy keys—from her father she
supposed—and locked the door behind them, leaving them in a
peculiar gloom.

She sighed and dropped the
box. “No fire either, I suppose.”

“
You’re cold?”

She shrugged and pulled a
dust-cover off a piece of furniture. An end table. She shook out
the thick, rough cloth and wrapped it around herself. The clawed
weapon inside the shawl dug into her side reassuringly.

“
Good thinking,” the man
said. He strode off. A few minutes later he came back with a plate
holding a hunk of cheese. She shook her head when he held it out to
her, but he only moved closer to her, hand still outstretched
insistently.

“
You have to eat. It’s
been hours. I don’t want you fainting again. How’s your
head?”

“
Fine,” she lied, though
it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had and the dizziness had
passed. She took the plate from him.

He watched for a moment
then left again, this time reappearing with a mug. “Can’t fire up
the stove to make tea, so you have to make do with water,” he said
and put it down on the uncovered table.

He helped her pull the
cover off a sofa and she sat with the plate on her lap, nibbling
the large hard lump of cheese, looking down with surprise when she
realized she’d finished it all.

“
You rest,” he ordered.
She didn’t want to argue with him, so she stretched out on the sofa
drawing up her feet without removing her ankle boots. Lounging on
the furniture, putting her dirty feet on a sofa felt entirely
foreign. She had abandoned all of her training today.

He folded his arms and
looked down at her. “There are bedrooms upstairs.”

“
You seem to think we
might soon be under attack. If we are to leave quickly, I don’t
want to climb out of the second story window.” She pulled the dust
cover up to her chin.

He gave a nod and moved
closer. For the first time she could look up and into his face. She
stared at him, startled. Not by his regular features which were
fine. A straight nose, dark, deep-set eyes—but the almost handsome
face was marred by a startling pale scar that ran from the corner
of his left eye to his cheek.

He was searching her eyes
and she held her breath. “Just checking again,” he told her. “It’ll
be hard to see once it gets fully dark.”

Well that was an obvious
statement. She smiled politely.

“
I’m looking in your eyes.
To see if you have damage,” he said. “That’s what I mean.” He
pushed a hand through his hair. For the first time he seemed at a
loss.

He turned away.

“
What’s your name?” she
asked.

“
Wallace.” He walked away.
“Rest. I want to go at least twenty miles when we leave
tonight.”

She felt she’d already
been wrapped in night for hours. First huddled in the dark potting
shed in the depth of the woods and now in the unnatural dimness of
a house shuttered and with curtains drawn.

Kitty closed her eyes and
wondered about Wallace. Was that his first or last name? Or perhaps
he’d lied and given her a false name.

Though she still hadn’t
had a good look at him, he didn’t have the air of a gentleman
despite his reasonably cultured accent. The scar on his face gave
him a dangerous look and he could pass for a scoundrel, a
highwayman or one of her father’s ruffians. Still, he hadn’t put
his hands on her or tried to drag her from her father’s
property.

Papa
.

According to this Wallace,
he’d fled without a thought of her. She could imagine her father
riding off the estate, leaving others to clean up and protect his
belongings. When they met again—if they met—Papa would scold,
pointing out she should have known about the danger and not gone
out on jaunts without consulting him. Or perhaps he’d refuse to
discuss the matter at all. That was his usual course.

If she could escape the
mob and this Wallace, she’d go to her aunt. She barely knew the
calm Miss Dillard, but Kitty felt certain the lady would give her
shelter. Papa would be angry and perhaps refuse to pay for her
season in London if she went to her dead mother’s
relative.

Kitty sighed and turned
over. Her father would be apoplectic if their plans of her season
and eventual glorious marriage didn’t come to pass.

Though after today…perhaps
Papa would be ruined by this incident and he would not be able to
pay for the expensive season and she wouldn’t have the chance to
explore the pleasures of town. The thought should have dismayed
her. Her time in London was to display the hard work she’d done for
years, polishing herself so she wouldn’t be recognizable as a mill
owner’s daughter. Only a few hours ago, she’d eagerly anticipated
the moment she’d be launched into a social whirl. Now she wanted to
stay alive and whole.

--from the novella,
Protecting Miss Samuels