Scoundrel Ever After (Secrets and Scandals) (9 page)

“Not you exactly. I didn’t immediately process who you were. Forgive me if I’m not used to waking up beside beautiful young society misses.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed.

He thought her beautiful? Warmth suffused her. He’d paid her similar compliments when she’d taught him to waltz, had flirted with her, but she’d written it off as a gentleman’s charm. He was ridiculously handsome, and men who looked like him flirted with everyone. Well, everyone except her.

She fetched his shirt and helped him don the garment, working to keep her gaze averted from the muscles rippling in his back and chest and arms. He had muscles everywhere. It was very disconcerting. Once he was covered, she took a deep, sustaining breath. Much better.

She brought his boots over and tugged them up his calves after he’d stuck his foot inside. “I’d best tie your cravat again.” She slid the linen around his neck and adjusted the collar of his shirt.

He stared at her intently, his eyes boring into her with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. Was it purposeful? Was he flirting with her again? She wasn’t sure she could bear it. No one had ever flirted with her until him.

She dropped her gaze to the cravat her clumsy fingers were trying to knot. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She chanced a glance at him and was sorry for it because his gaze had only intensified, if that were possible. Plus, he’d arched his brow again in that frustratingly provocative manner. “Oh, never mind.” She knew she mumbled, but she deeply regretted drawing attention to her discomfort. The constant blushing was bad enough.

She finished her work as quickly as possible and helped him don the coat. At last, they were ready to leave.

“What about your hair?” he asked.

She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten all about her own toilette. Of course her hair would be a disaster, but she had no brush and she’d lost more pins than she had left. A small glass on the wall revealed a completely disheveled mess. She now doubted the veracity of his flirtation—he was surely bamming her. No one would find her attractive, least of all a man like him.

She pulled what pins remained out of her hair and looked about for a place to set them.

He appeared beside her with his palm open. Three hairpins were already lying there.

She looked up at him. “Where did you find those?”

“In the bed.” The mere mention of the word bed threatened to send heat up her neck again, but she managed to keep it at bay. “I’ll hold the others while you make repairs. I’m sorry you don’t have a brush.” The fact that he sounded genuinely apologetic only made things worse. Why did he have to be so gentlemanly when she was perfectly aware he was probably no gentleman?

She deposited the pins in his hand. “Thank you.” Trying to work her hair into a serviceable knot was nearly impossible, but she managed to secure it, at least for now. Doubtless, when they got on their way, it would begin its inevitable descent.

“Ready?” he asked, going to the door.

“Yes.” She followed him out of the room and down the narrow stairs to the small common area.

The innkeeper’s wife greeted them and offered them a modest repast of potatoes, ham, and bread. When they were finished and preparing to leave, she approached Audrey with a small bag. “This is for your luncheon,” she said warmly. “And I also have these for you.” She handed Audrey a bonnet and a . . . brush.

Audrey glanced at Mr. Locke, who was conversing with the innkeeper near the front door. He’d procured these things for her, she was certain of it.

“And don’t worry,” the innkeeper’s wife said, “your secret is safe with us. No one shall know the Millers passed through. I realize Miller isn’t likely your real name.” She winked at Audrey and gave her a quick hug.

What sort of secret had Mr. Locke told them? Audrey set the bonnet atop her head and tucked the brush into the food bag. “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and joined Mr. Locke.

He opened the door for her and they stepped out into the overcast morning. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the bag.

“Food from Mrs. Hodges. Thank you for asking for the bonnet and brush.”

He looked at her askance. “How did you know that was me?”

“How else would she have known?”

He shrugged, moving toward the lean-to where their horse was stabled. “Maybe she was just observant.”

Audrey stared after him. “Are you saying it’s obvious my hair was in want of a brush?”

He turned. “Are you trying to make me into a villain?”

She cringed internally.
Wasn’t
he a villain? “What story did you tell them?”

“What we agreed to, that we were a young married couple.”

The untied ribbons of her bonnet lifted in the breeze. “That can’t be all you said. Mrs. Hodges told me not to worry, that our ‘secret’ was safe.”

He exhaled and came toward her. He took her hand and pulled her toward the lean-to. “We need to be on our way.”

“You’re not going to tell me what you said, are you?”

“What does it matter?” He let go of her hand when they got to the lean-to.

She wanted to know the truth. She felt fairly certain by now that he was a criminal. He had to be. Why else would he run from Bow Street? And why else would he keep the truth from her? More importantly, if she believed he was a criminal, why was she trusting him? She’d given him a portion of her funds the previous night so he could pay for their lodgings. Had he used it all? He hadn’t given her any of it back.

“Where’s the rest of the money I gave you?” she asked, her suspicion getting the better of her.

He took the bag from her and tied it to the back of the horse, which was now sporting a saddle. “I had to use it all.”

She was glad she hadn’t given him the lot. “Why?”

He untied the horse and led her into the yard. “The lodgings, your accoutrements, the saddle, and a second horse, which we’ll need to have someone return at some point. I couldn’t afford to buy her outright.” He inclined his head toward the lane.

A boy was leading another horse toward them. He came into the yard, touched his cap and handed the lead to Mr. Locke.

“Thank you, lad.” Mr. Locke gave him a penny and the boy turned and ran back the way he’d come. “Actually,
that
was the last of the money.”

She eyed the second horse. “Why did we need another mount?”

“I thought we’d make better time if we rode separately. And I thought you might appreciate your own horse—with a sidesaddle—you’re a very fine horsewoman.”

Another compliment and another flush of pleasure. She had to admit it was probably safer—at least for her sensibilities—if he wasn’t pressed behind her. “Thank you.”

“May I help you up?”

She tied her bonnet beneath her chin. “Yes, please. Does she have a name?”

“I was told she’s called Athena.” He boosted her onto the horse and climbed atop the one they’d stolen the day before. “We’ll have to keep referring to this one as ‘girl,’ I suppose.”

Audrey felt bad about stealing the first horse, and felt much better that they’d paid for everything today, even if it meant their funds were running low. And she was also glad he’d done the paying instead of resorting to thievery. Maybe he wasn’t truly a criminal after all. “Do you think we could return your horse to that farmer we, uh, borrowed it from?”

“I suppose.” He didn’t sound as if he’d given it any thought. “To be honest, I don’t even know how we’ll get anyone to return your horse.”

Had he lied? “But you told them you would. Return it, I mean.”

“I did, and I will try.” He gave her a hard look. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we plan.”

She was well aware of that. Still, she felt a bit uneasy.

As they rode out of the yard, he turned to her and said, “Mr. Hodges gave me directions on how to get to Wootton Bassett. Without taking the main roads of course.”

Of course. Surely Mr. Hodges had found that odd. Suddenly she was quite fed up with him withholding information. “Why is Bow Street chasing you? I think I’ve a right to know what I’m fleeing.”

“
You’re
not fleeing anything.” He kicked his horse into a trot.

She followed him and easily caught up. She wasn’t going to let him ignore her questions again. Perhaps she could try another way to learn his closely-guarded secrets. “I’ve been thinking about you. You clearly know how to steal. I wonder if you stole a lady’s heart. You’re certainly charming and handsome enough.”

He looked over at her. “Very amusing.”

“Of course, Bow Street wouldn’t actually pursue you for such nonsense. So maybe you stole something else.”

He was looking forward once more, but she could make out his scowl in profile.

She continued on her path of inquiry. “Or perhaps it was some other crime entirely. Perhaps you exhibited public drunkenness.”

“Haven’t we all? Save you of course, unless your two sherries at Michaelmas induced you to run amok in public.”

She smiled. “What about blasphemy? You certainly like to swear a lot.”

“Are you having fun?”

“In the absence of your forthrightness, I have to make my own assumptions.” And yes, she
was
having fun. “I know! Adultery. As I said, you’re too handsome for your own good.”

“Fine.” He slid her an embittered glance. “If I tell you something, will you stop?”

She’d been hoping to divert him, but that was proving to be difficult. “That depends on what you tell me.”

“When I was a lad, I was called ‘Pretty Boy.’” His tone held a weary scorn that provoked her to laugh.

She looked over at him. Yes, he had a pretty face, but his attraction was so much more than that. He had a presence about him—of authority and arrogance, of intelligence and wit that gave him an aura of power, as if he was in absolute control of any situation. “Can I call you Pretty Boy?”

He turned his head and their gazes connected. She chilled at the ice in his eyes. “No, you may not,” he said. “I hated that nickname. No one ever took me seriously.” He slowed his horse to a stop, and she did the same because she was absolutely compelled by him.

“Would you like to know how I got rid of that nickname?” he asked softly. Dangerously.

A shiver curled in her belly. “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper.

“As a lad, I worked in a theft gang. When I was fifteen, I was tired of being discounted because of the way I looked. I wanted power. Prestige. Respect. So I killed the leader of the gang and assumed his place. No one ever called me ‘Pretty Boy’ again.”

Chapter Five

A
S THE SUN
began to set, Ethan looked over at Audrey. They’d barely exchanged words since he’d told her about killing Four-Finger Tom, and that had been hours ago. They’d stopped briefly for lunch and here and there for personal reasons, but for the most part, they’d ridden relentlessly. He wanted to put as many miles between him and London as possible. But then what? Hang around Wootton Bassett until when? Forever? His skin itched at the prospect of settling into a tiny village in the middle of the countryside.

“Are we going to stop soon?” Exhaustion weighted her tone, and her posture was that of a person who was tired of sitting atop a horse. Ethan knew this because he was certain it mirrored his own.

He was weary, sore from being in the saddle so long, and his arm ached almost unbearably at times. He wanted to stop, but there was no village in sight. “I don’t know if we’ll find a place to stay before it gets dark. We may just have to make do with something else.”

She moved her horse closer beside him, walking them side-by-side. “What does that mean?”

“It means we may need to sleep wherever we find shelter. Provided we even find any.”

She didn’t respond and kept her face directed straight ahead. He ought to apologize for frightening her earlier. He had frightened her—he was certain of it. He’d admitted to not only thievery but murder.

He’d been considering what to do, trying to formulate a plan. Taking her out of London had been a gut reaction. Yes, she’d been in danger from Gin Jimmy, but Ethan wondered if he couldn’t have asked Jason to ensure her safety. He was sure his brother would’ve agreed. If only Ethan had trusted him. Or even thought of trusting him. Christ, having an ally—a true, blood ally—was going to take getting used to.

He glanced at Audrey again, wilting in her saddle. His future was as uncertain as ever. She was a burden he couldn’t really afford, and he’d done what he’d set out to do—he’d gotten her out of London. He didn’t expect Gin Jimmy or Bow Street, who likely couldn’t spare a Runner for a merry chase, would follow them this far out. Ethan’s mind kept returning to the obvious solution: as soon as they reached Wootton Bassett, he’d leave her with her friends—she’d be safe this far from London—and be on his way.

At last, a small building came into view. It sat at the edge of a large enclosure with a dozen or so sheep grazing in the golden rays of the setting sun filtering through the mottled clouds.

“Will that work?” she asked, eyeing the shelter.

“Let’s find out.” He kicked his horse into a canter and stopped at the edge of the enclosure. He dismounted, his wounds protesting angrily with the movement. His legs wobbled, like they were made of pudding. He tied the horse to the fence and climbed over to investigate the building.