Candice Hern (12 page)

Simon laughed merrily, grabbed her hand, and tugged her through the rowdy crowd of spectators that had gathered. When they reached the door he pulled her outside to the inn yard.

They stood wordless and staring, each surveying the other for damage. Simon was a wreck. His coat was ripped at the shoulder, his neckcloth was loose, several buttons were missing on his waistcoat, and blood stained his collar. Somewhere inside, he’d lost his hat. There was a cut bleeding over one eye, and a bruise was already darkening along his jaw. But his blue eyes blazed bright with some kind of fire.

“You are hurt,” she said.

“Take your bonnet off,” he said in a brusque tone.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

She did so; then, assuming it must have been ruined, she examined it for damage and found none. She instinctively reached up to adjust her flattened hair, then looked up and raised her brows in question.

“Put it down on the bench behind you,” he said.

She met his gaze squarely, but for once was not compelled to challenge him. Something in his tone urged her to do as he asked. She turned and laid the bonnet on the bench.

All at once he swung her around, drew her into his arms, and crushed his mouth against hers in a kiss that was almost primal in its urgency. This was nothing like the sweet, almost innocent meeting of lips they had shared yesterday. This was raw and unrestrained, dark and greedy.

It was the most purely carnal moment Eleanor had experienced in over a decade.

She did not even consider fighting him, even though he held her so tightly she thought her ribs might crack. Instead, she kissed him back with almost equal passion, unable at first, and unwilling, to let her better judgment take control. He opened his mouth wide over hers, and she opened her own to let him inside.

It felt good. Too good. She ought not allow it. She ought not allow herself this giddy moment of pure sensual pleasure. She ought not give in to the indescribable comfort of his arms. But it had been a somewhat frightening experience to be manhandled by that drunken oaf, and she figured she was allowed this brief indulgence.

He broke the kiss, almost as suddenly as he’d begun it, and cradled her head against his shoulder. Both of them were breathing hard. Neither spoke for what seemed minutes. They just silently held on to each other. Then she began to feel a trembling in his chest and realized he was laughing.

“Eleanor. Eleanor.” He muttered her name over and over, his lips against her hair, the laughter still rippling through him. Finally, still holding her close, he said, “Forgive me, Eleanor, but I could not stop myself. The heat of battle, I suppose. When I walked in to find that lout mauling you, I went a little mad. I wanted to kill him for daring to touch you, and now look what I’ve done. Did he hurt you?”

“No, he just infuriated me. You were marvelous, Simon.”

“So were you, my dear. I hardly think you needed me at all. Clubbing that last fellow with a chair was spectacular. And I am almost certain the flying tankard that struck one of my attackers came from your direction, did it not?”

“You were unfairly outnumbered.”

He laughed again and hugged her more tightly, then loosened his arms a bit so he could look down at her. “Most women would have fallen into a swoon if they had been treated so roughly by a drunken brute. But as I now recall, you were fighting him pretty hard. I always knew you were Boadicea incarnate.”

“Not so strong as all that,” she said. “I could not have fought him alone. He was much stronger than me. And no one else came to my aid. I’m sure they all must have thought I was some sort of lightskirt.”

“I am so sorry for that, my dear. I learned from the ostler that the crowds are here for a mill. That’s why there are no women—no respectable women—to be seen. I should never have allowed you to walk in there alone.”

“A mill? Well, that explains a lot.” She could not believe she was having this reasonably normal conversation with a man who’d just kissed her like a Viking raider. But perhaps he was right. It was just a matter of blood still heated from the fight. It had not meant anything.

“If only I’d paid more attention to the sort of crowd that had gathered in the town,” Simon said, “I’d never have sent you into that taproom.”

“It is not your fault. I entered that room of my own volition. But I cannot tell you how relieved I was to see you walk in the door.”

He reached up and cupped her cheek. “Were you?”

Oh, God, he was going to kiss her again. Not in a mindless moment of heat this time, but with deliberate intent. She did not believe she could bear it.

He studied her mouth with that intense blue gaze and gently stroked her upper lip with his thumb.

He dipped his head slowly, slowly—

“Simon, old chap, what the devil—oh! Sorry.”

He groaned and pulled away, releasing her from his embrace. Eleanor found that she wanted to groan, too, but with relief. It would have been a huge mistake to allow another kiss, though she would probably not have been able to resist.
Foolish woman.
And someone he knew had almost been a witness to such folly.

She tried to hide the embarrassment heating her cheeks by turning her attention to adjusting her skirts and replacing her bonnet. Simon, however, took her by the elbow to face his friend, the large
gentleman who had come to his assistance inside. He was in a similar state to Simon: hatless, clothes askew, a bruise or two on his face, blood staining his shirtfront, the exhilaration of the fight lighting his blue eyes.

“Mrs. Tennant,” Simon said, “may I introduce my brother, Malcolm Westover.”

Surprised, Eleanor extended her hand to the young man. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Westover.”

He took her hand, bent over it, and in a very suggestive tone said, “The pleasure, Mrs. Tennant, is all mine, I assure you.” The blue eyes, so similar to Simon’s, never left hers.

She retrieved her hand before he could plant a fulsome kiss upon it. “My goodness, Simon, you were certainly right about him.”

Malcolm grinned. No dimples, she noticed. “And what sort of Banbury tale has my brother been spreading about me, ma’am?”

“Only that you are the larger brother, and you certainly are that.”

The young man gave a bark of laughter. “I am indeed, though, as Simon always likes to remind me, he has an inch or so on me in height. And a whole lot more in his upper works.” Turning his attention to his brother, he said, “But I say, old man, you could have knocked me over with a feather when you marched in and planted that chap a facer. Nothing less than a stunning right, I tell you. Absolutely stunning.”

Eleanor could have sworn that Simon, the bookish brother, actually preened.

But she, too, thought his performance rather wonderful, defending her honor so thoroughly. She caught his eye and sent a silent signal of thanks, and admiration. He acknowledged her with a smile, dimples and all, and a slight blush colored his bruised face.

“I still cannot believe it,” Malcolm said. “If anyone had told me my skinny, ginger-hackled, intellectual brother would throw a punch in public, I’d have said he was daft.”

“It was necessary,” Simon said.

“Yes, I saw how that brandy-faced sot was pawing Mrs. Tennant,” Malcolm said, “but I had no idea she was yours. I’d have darkened his daylights myself if I’d known.”

“Malcolm, Mrs. Tennant is not—”

“And that’s another thing. I never knew you to parade one of your highfliers in public. Since when did—hey!”

Simon had grabbed his brother tightly by the collar and stood nose-to-nose with him. “Unless you want the same treatment as that lout who dared to touch her,” he said through clenched teeth, “you will apologize to Mrs. Tennant this instant. She is
not
my mistress. She is no one’s mistress. She is a lady, a lady who has already endured a public mauling this night. I will not allow her to suffer further insult from my own brother.”

“Egad, Simon, I had no idea. Let me go.”

“You will apologize first.”

Malcolm cast his eyes in Eleanor’s direction. Simon’s grip would not allow him to turn his head. “I am most dreadfully sorry, ma’am. It was my mistake. I meant you no disrespect, I assure you.”

Simon let go, and Malcolm rocked back on his heels. He rubbed his throat and said again, “I am sorry, Mrs. Tennant. I never did have any brains.”

He looked so thoroughly mortified that Eleanor had to bite back a smile. “Apology accepted, Mr. Westover. It was an honest mistake.”

The young man blew out a relieved breath through puffed cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am.” Then he turned to his brother. “By Jove, old chap, you are full of surprises tonight. Not the least of which is finding you here to begin with. Never thought you cared much for the ring.”

“We are not here for the mill,” Simon said. “Mrs. Tennant is a friend whose niece has gone missing. We are searching for her.”

“In Buxton?”

“We’re not sure where she is just yet.”

Malcolm’s broad face broke into a grin. “Oho, I see what’s up. The girl’s bolted with some enterprising fellow, I’ll wager. On the road to Gretna, eh?”

“Shut up, Malcolm. It’s none of your affair.”

“No, no. I’m sure it is not.” He turned to Eleanor with a sheepish look in his eye. “But if I can be of
any help, ma’am, you must let me know. It is the least I can do after…well, it is the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westover, but your brother has engaged the services of two Bow Street Runners. I prefer not to involve anyone else, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course. But the offer stands nevertheless.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I am curious, though,” Malcolm said, “how my scholarly brother came to be involved in your niece’s…er…predicament.”

“You could say that he was partially to blame,” Eleanor said, “with some of his nonsensical Busybody advice.”

“His
what
?”

Simon grabbed Eleanor’s arm and began to drag her away. “We really must inquire about rooms for the night,” he said. “You will have to excuse us, Malcolm.”

So his father was not the only family member who knew nothing about the Busybody. Simon clearly had no desire for his brother to be enlightened on the subject.

“No need to inquire,” Malcolm said, still eying his brother skeptically. “There ain’t a room to be had for miles.”

“Damnation,” Simon said, then muttered an apology to Eleanor for his language. “One of the Runners is to meet us here, or at least send a message giving us our next stop. And I will not take
Mrs. Tennant back into the taproom. What the devil are we going to do?”

Malcolm looked over his shoulder briefly, then said, “Got an idea in my head. Wait here a moment.”

He went to join two men standing near the doorway. Eleanor recognized them as the two men who’d fought beside him in the taproom. They both appeared disheveled, bright-eyed, and slightly giddy. Or slightly drunk. Malcolm clapped each of them on the shoulder and spoke quietly to them, nodding his head in her direction.

“I’m sorry I mentioned the Busybody,” she said to Simon while his brother conferred with his friends. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No. Besides some of the others at the magazine, no one else knows. Except you.”

“Why do you continue to write it if you are so ashamed of doing so?”

“I am not ashamed—”

“Mrs. Tennant, allow me to introduce my friends.” Malcolm had walked up flanked by the two gentlemen. “This woolly-haired fellow is Daffy Arbuthnot.”

The young man, whose hair was so blond and so curly he looked like a lamb in man’s costume, stepped forward and sketched a bow. “Your obedient, ma’am.” He stood back, straightened his neckcloth, and brushed off his coat. “Must forgive the frightful state of my togs. Bit of a tussle inside, don’t you know. ’Course you know. Smack in the
thick of, wasn’t you? By the by, dashed fine show, Westover. Cracking good right.”

Simon nodded acknowledgment with a sheepish grin.

“And this here black-eyed rogue,” Malcolm said, “is Sackville Gates.”

He, too, presented a fine leg as he acknowledged Eleanor. But where Mr. Arbuthnot was bright and gregarious, Mr. Gates was dark and reticent. He cleared his throat and said, “A pleasure, ma’am,” then gave over his attention to brushing a bit of dirt from his cuff.

“The thing of it is,” Malcolm said, “the three of us nabbed a room early on. Well, bound to, weren’t we, when we toddled up from Town with everyone in our dust. Anyway, happy to give it up to Mrs. Tennant and take our chances in the taproom, or the stables. Afraid you’ll have to do the same, Simon.”

Eleanor offered a smile to each of the young men, none of whom, upon closer scrutiny, was entirely sober. “Thank you very much, gentlemen. That is most generous of you. I believe I will accept your kind offer.”

“Well done, my lad,” Simon said. “Now, I don’t suppose there is a private parlor available where we might dine in peace?”

“Unlikely,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, there is,” Daffy Arbuthnot interjected. “Don’t you remember, Westover? Got a cunning little parlor adjoining the bedchamber.”

“By Jove, I think you’re right, Daffy,” Malcolm said. “Forgot, that’s all. Never could keep two ideas in my brainpan at the same time.”

“Stands to reason,” Mr. Arbuthnot said. “Comes from getting your head busted up one too many times. But there is indeed a parlor of a sort. Gates and I had thought to make up a bowl of punch later on, and perhaps get up a private game or two. Take advantage of the wagering spirit in the air, don’t you know.” He turned his woolly head toward Eleanor. “Consider it at your disposal, ma’am. It could easily accommodate a meal for two.” Malcolm gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Or just for yourself, Mrs. Tennant. You could dine alone, away from the raff and rabble in the public dining room.”

Eleanor smiled at his discomposure. He no doubt made the same assumption about her and Simon as Malcolm had. She was beyond caring about the proprieties, though, and had few concerns for her reputation. Even though it was only their third night on the road, it felt as if she and Simon had been together for weeks, and she had grown accustomed to traveling and dining alone with him.