My Runaway Heart (11 page)

"Are you taking me to another favorite place?"

"Yes, they've good food here. I think you'll like
it."

Lindsay felt such relief at the warmth of his answering
smile that she could only stare at him for a moment, blinking with some chagrin
when the driver cleared his throat to get their attention. As Jared paid the
man, even jesting with him when the fellow inquired about the outcome of the
boxing match, she felt her spirits soar higher.

He had been so silent in the carriage—other than asking
if she was hungry—that she hadn't known what to think. It had been so hard for
her to keep still; truly, it wasn't her nature, but she was glad now that she
had. She took his proffered arm, elated that he hadn't directed the coach to
take her home. If he had been angry, it appeared his ill humor had passed.

"I'm so sorry about the ruckus at
Offley's
," she blurted out, unable to keep quiet any
longer. "We were at
Almack's
, Aunt Winnie,
Matilda and I. Lady
Sefton
sent us a voucher—oh, but
that isn't important. I heard about the boxing match from Peter Bench, Lord
Bridley
, and I thought perhaps you might be there. I so
wanted to thank you for last night and ask if we might arrange another
rendezvous—"

"And so things have turned out just as you hoped."

Lindsay looked curiously around her as they entered the
near-empty tavern, a simple, unadorned place with sturdy furnishings and
timbered walls and a huge stone hearth at one end where a low fire burned. "Oh,
yes, well, other than . . ." She didn't finish, remembering all too
clearly her wretched helplessness atop that table. "You've rescued me
twice now—"

"Once. Remember our secret? We both know your
swoon was a ruse, and quite expertly executed at that."

The low teasing in his voice thrilling her to her toes,
Lindsay was reluctant to let go of his arm as he seated her at a table well
away from the few heavy-lidded patrons who appeared to be nodding off into
their mugs. She knew she was staring at him again, but she simply couldn't help
herself.

He was so handsome, his eyes so blue . . . a deep
sea-swept blue; there, she had named the uncommon color at last! Heat raced up
her face when he pulled a chair from around the table and sat down next to her;
her racing heart lodged in her throat as he reached for her hand, his strong
fingers caressing hers.

"
Ain't
meanin
' to interrupt anything, milord, but is there
somethin
' I could bring you and your fine lady friend?
Wine? Mayhap a nice tablecloth to keep you both safe from splinters?"

Lindsay felt Jared stiffen, but she couldn't imagine
why as she glanced up to find an attractive, ebony-haired serving woman with
the biggest breasts she'd ever seen leaning over the—oh, Lord. Embarrassed, she
dropped her gaze even as the woman gave a throaty laugh.

"Aye, you can't help but notice 'em. Quite a nice
handful, or so I've been told . . .
Ain't
that right,
milord?"

The woman laughed again, but a door slamming against a
wall made her curse softly under her breath.

"Della,
wot's
takin
' you, woman?" came a gruff shout across the
room, a strapping fellow with a glistening bald pate peering out at them from
what Lindsay imagined was the kitchen. Yet suddenly the man's belligerent tone
grew ingratiating as he wiped his hands on a towel and threw it over his
shoulder,
then
forged out to greet them. "Ah,
Lord Giles, welcome! So pleased to see you tonight—and the
luvly
lady, of course."

Lindsay lowered her head at the man's shrewd and
blatantly admiring perusal. She slipped her hand from Jared's to draw her hood
closer around her face.

"We'd like supper, Sprigs, and wine."

"Aye, so you shall have it, milord, the best in me
house! We've got plain food here, but good—wife, why in blazes are you
dallyin
'? You heard the
gentl'man
!
Fetch some wine!"

Lindsay winced as Della earned a sound smack on her
generous rump for moving too slowly, the tavern keeper spreading his
work-reddened hands wide as if to apologize as she sauntered away.

"She's a good girl, Della, aims to please most
times. A bit saucy, but I've ne'er heard me customers complain. Well, I'll be
off to the kitchen—"

"We'd like to be served upstairs in my room,
Sprigs. When everything is ready, have Della knock and leave the tray outside
the door. I'd rather we weren't disturbed."

If Jared had said they were thinking of taking an
evening dip in the Thames or planning to sup with mad King George himself,
Lindsay couldn't have been more astonished. Her eyes were as wide as the tavern
keeper's appeared for an instant; in the next there was nothing but a knowing
smile on the man's face as he bobbed his shiny head and hustled away. But she
had no chance to dwell upon his disconcerting reaction, for Jared once more
took her hand.

"Come. It's quieter upstairs. More private."

She could only nod, having lost her voice entirely. She
could feel curious eyes boring into her back when Jared drew her from her seat
and they made their way to the stairs, but she kept her head lowered, more so
Jared couldn't see how red her face felt at that moment, her mind running away
with itself.

Jared had a room here? Of course, as a spy, perhaps he
found the Boar's Head more suited to the secretive nature of his work, just as
Tom's Cellar was a place where he could relax. Oh, dear, everything was
suddenly so confusing—she would have much preferred to remain in the dining
room. But that wasn't very daring of her, no, not adventurous at all. And, of
course, it made perfect sense that he might wish to converse with her in a
private place, especially if he intended to share with her some of his heroic
exploits . . .

"It's not very elegant, but it suits me."

She made herself smile brightly, pressing her hand to
her breast to quiet her thundering heart as he pushed open a door and stepped
aside so she could enter. A lamp near the unassuming double bed was burning low
and the bedclothes were turned down—an amenity which didn't surprise her,
considering how deferential Sprigs had been downstairs—and the room appeared
well kempt though a bit threadbare, just as Jared had said.

"You . . . you don't have a town house in the
city?" she couldn't help asking, her gaze skipping from a weathered pine
wardrobe to Jared's face. He shook his head as he pulled the pistol from his
coat and set it upon a table.

"I'm never in London long enough to warrant the
trouble—hiring servants and so on. Please, sit."

Glancing from the down-turned bed to the one chair in
the room, Lindsay felt herself redden again and nearly tripped over the frayed
carpet in her haste to perch herself on a stuffed arm.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable without that
cloak?"

"M-my cloak?"

He had shed his dark navy coat, tossing it onto the
bed, a teasing smile on his face as he approached her. She swallowed hard,
unable not to notice the expert cut of his waistcoat and how snugly it fit his
lean torso, his fawn-colored breeches as close-fitting and hugging his flanks
like a second skin, his black riding boots making little sound upon the
carpeted floor. Then he was standing in front of her, his fingers unfastening
the frogs of her cloak before she could think to do the task herself.

"The stove in the corner offers little heat, but it's
not so cool that you need wear this any longer."

Lindsay shivered as he slipped the hood from her hair,
his hands lightly skimming her face before they moved to push the cloak gently
off her shoulders. He was staring so deeply into her eyes that she had the
strangest sensation she was drowning, drowning in something deliciously
warm
and altogether inviting. Only with great effort was she
able to look away, almost giddy as she looked for anything to talk about.

"Do . . . do you always carry a pistol? Of course,
as a spy, you must, I'm sure—and—and it was fortunate you had one with you
tonight at
Offley's
. Fortunate for me, I mean."

"Yes, it was very fortunate. And yes" —he
reached up to run a callused fingertip slowly along her cheek— "I never go
anywhere without a weapon."

The sudden hard glint in his eyes and the harsh timbre
of his voice did not go unnoticed. Lindsay was beset by a chill, not of fright,
but of vivid empathy. She could imagine the trials he must have endured while
in loyal service to the Crown, the trials he still must face. It made her yearn
to know that much more about him and she inclined her head, leaning into the
strong masculine hand that still cradled her face. But at the sudden knock on
the door he left her, Lindsay sinking dizzily from the stuffed arm into the
chair.

"Your supper,
luv
—milord."

She heard Della's throaty laugh, glanced over and saw
the buxom tavern keeper's wife give Jared a broad wink, but he said nothing as
he took the tray and kicked the door shut.

"Jared . . . shouldn't we have thanked her?"

"She's a woman
more fond
of coin than words," he said dryly, drawing a small three-legged table to
Lindsay's chair and setting down the tray. "I'll compensate her
tomorrow—but for now, let's see what she brought us."

Lindsay's mouth was already watering at the savory
smells in the air. She gasped with delight when Jared drew aside a white linen
napkin.

"Why, its Cornish pie, surely!" She watched
eagerly as he cut into the flaky brown pastry and offered her a generous
serving, the steamy filling of ham,
leeks
and thick
cream custard oozing out onto her plate. "Or
a dish very
much like
it. I haven't had anything that looks this good since I left
Porthleven
.
Corie's
housekeeper,
Frances, makes the most wonderful Cornish pie."

"Obviously Sprigs does, too," came Jared's
amused comment as she popped a heaping forkful into her mouth, her mistake not
to blow upon it first. At once her eyes began to tear, since the food was so
warm. Lindsay threw a grateful look at Jared when he handed her a pewter goblet
filled with red wine, and she drank hurriedly.

"Oh . . . oh, that's better." Chagrined with
herself, Lindsay returned the goblet to the tray with a sheepish smile. "I
guess I was hungrier than I thought. There was food at
Almack's
.
Stale cakes, actually. Not very appetizing even if I had felt like eating."

"So things there haven't changed that much."

Lindsay stared at Jared as he lifted his goblet and
drank deeply, his words surprising her. "You've been to
Almack's
?"

He
nodded,
a strange smile on
his face. "I haven't been graced with my notorious reputation forever.
There was a time when I was granted entrance through those hallowed doors—"

"Oh, Jared, it would have been so wonderful if you
could have been there tonight," Lindsay blurted. "I watched for you
all evening—none of my partners danced even half as well as you. It isn't fair
at all that you should be excluded through no fault of your own, and I intend
to post a letter tomorrow morning to Lady
Sefton
and
the other Patronesses, saying just that. I don't believe a word of what my aunt
or anyone else has said about you, not a word—oh!"

Lindsay's eyes grew wide as Jared's hand clamped
tightly around her wrist, wider still when he drew her roughly up to face him,
her plate of food crashing to the floor. His eyes seemed to burn into hers.

"What do you really know of me, Lindsay Somerset?
Tell me."

Chapter 10

Lindsay didn't know what to say, wondering wildly what
had caused his drastic change of mood. "N-not much, truly, only that you're
a spy—"

"Oh, yes, a spy. So it's been rumored. What else?"

"And an
earl
."

"Yes, the sixth Earl of
Dovercourt
,
the title inherited from my uncle the fifth earl, Alistair Giles. And?"

"And . . ." Lindsay faltered, Jared searching
her eyes with such intensity that she felt a blush race to her scalp. "You
once lived in India. I . . . I remember that from last night. Calcutta."

"Ah, and what else do you remember?"

He had drawn so close, his face, his lips hovering so
near hers, that Lindsay's knees suddenly felt weak. "Only that—that I
believe you kissed me."

"Kissed you? Are you sure?"

She bobbed her head, her breath snagged in her throat.

"And what would you have done if one of those men
at
Offley's
had grabbed you from that table and
kissed you—a man you didn't know, a man who might mean you harm—"

"I would have slapped him, kicked him."

"And tried to get away?"

"Yes, yes, of course!"

"So what if I told you that I might mean you harm,
Lindsay—that perhaps in my personal affairs I'm as disreputable as people say,
as your aunt says? A spy, an earl, I've lived in Calcutta. You know so precious
little about me, yet here you are, alone, in my room, at a tavern—"

"No, I don't believe you could ever mean me harm!"
Lindsay cut him off, her vehemence startling her and, she could see from the
darkening of his eyes, clearly startling Jared. "If so, you would have
last night in the carriage, but you didn't—only kissed me, and you swore to
Matilda that . . . that . . ." She didn't continue, looking down blindly
at the mess at her feet, her face burning.

"So Matilda told you she saw us."

"Yes." Lindsay spoke in a half whisper,
breathing in the subtle scent of bay rum emanating like heat from Jared's
shirt, his skin. "And I told her that you were daring and brave and gentlemanly—"