The Hired Hero (7 page)

The hem of her dress caught on the foot of the bed and she yanked at it impatiently. As her hands smoothed the folds of the borrowed garment she couldn’t help but mutter an unladylike oath. Men had such fewer constraints on them in dress, in behavior, in freedom to move about....

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The merino wool was still between her fingers and she played with the cloth as her mind raced. It was not a bad idea at all. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she had ever tried it. There was the time that Lucien had taken her to see Cribbs step into the ring with the challenger from the north....She could pull it off, she was sure she could.

Her mind made up, she made herself lie down. She would need her strength, and besides, she could not put her plan into action until well after midnight. There were no servants to worry about. She could only hope that the earl had not abandoned all of his profligate tendencies and would indulge freely in the bottle, as wastrels were wont to do. Then she remembered the distinctive aroma that had enveloped his person on both the mornings she had encountered him. Her lips curled in a slight smile. Yes, there was no doubt he would be in a drunken stupor by that hour.

Some hours later, she quietly crept into the dark hallway. She dared not light her candle just yet, but a pale wash of moonlight from a window near her door gave just enough illumination for her to find her way without incident. She had an idea of where she was going, for though she had dozed off and on throughout the afternoon, she couldn’t help but hear the sturdy tramp of Mrs. Collins climbing up and down the stairs. Slowly she moved along the threadbare carpet. Her throat tightened at the thought that she might inadvertently stumble into the earl’s bedchamber, but she forced herself to relax. It was highly unlikely he would notice, even if she did. By this time he no doubt had his hand well entwined around the smooth form of a bottle—or something equally as warming. In either case, his attention would be fully occupied.

She paused before a closed door. It seemed the likely one. Slowly she turned the handle and pushed it open a few inches. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Wooden stairs. She slipped inside and pulled the door shut. It was even colder in the attic than in the rest of the house and she shivered slightly in the pitch dark as she fumbled to light her candle. A sudden draft reminded her to look for a warm jacket as well the other things she had in mind. The flame lit, she hurried up into the cavernous darkness, her stockinged feet making no more noise than a scurrying mouse on the dusty treads.

A short time later, Caroline emerged from the door, her arms laden with an assortment of things. She crept back to her room and laid out the items she had selected on the bed. As she had suspected, very little had been thrown out over the generations. She had exactly what she needed.

Stepping back from the mirror, she adjusted the oversized woolen cap so that it fell even lower over her eyes. The effect was perfect. She tucked in the tails of the rough cotton, marveling again at how much freer she felt already, unencumbered by yards of material falling around her legs. The leather boots were a little too large, but it was of no matter. At least the thick wool socks kept her toes feeling warm. Shrugging into the heavy jacket, she was not unhappy that it, too, was a trifle big. It helped camouflage certain parts of her anatomy that were best left unseen. She took it off again and carefully felt around in its lining. It would do. She fetched her old gown and the sewing things Mrs. Collins had left for her. The transfer of the oiled packet holding the papers took only a few minutes —she hadn’t been bamming the housekeeper, she was rather skilled with a needle. As she put the garment back on, she looked out the window. A hint of light was just beginning to edge its way to the horizon.  Even if there was a groom, he would not be up for another hour or two.

It was time to go.

* * * *

Davenport splashed cold water onto his face from the pitcher on his dresser. He had slept fitfully and felt the dragging lethargy of one not fully rested. Still, it was futile to stay in bed. His mind was too preoccupied with his mounting problems, not least of which was the damned young lady peacefully asleep down the hall.

 He didn’t doubt for a moment that lady she was, and not some farmer’s wife or daughter. Her hands were smooth and soft, showing no signs of labor. Her speech was too cultured, not to speak of her knowledge of Society—after all, she knew exactly who he was.

The question was, who was she?

Her clothes certainly didn’t indicate she came from a high born family. But then again, he thought with an ironic smile, dress didn’t always indicate pedigree.  It could also be a disguise. If she were fleeing someone, she would no doubt seek to obscure her background. His lips compressed in a tight line. He didn’t have the time or energy for such gothic melodramas. He meant to have the truth out of her this morning and that was that. Then he could get her out of his life.

But could he truly hand her over to someone who had darkened her face in such a brutish manner?

He swore under his breath as he dried his stubbled chin. A grimace came over his features as the towel scraped over the thin line of scar tissue. His fingers came up to rub absently along the ridge of his cheekbone. Why did it always ache like the devil when he was tired and agitated? Lord, he needed some fresh air. A gallop on Nero would do him good, despite the early hour. Surely he would think of something by the time he returned.

It was barely light as he made his way towards he stable. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost missed the flicker of movement in the interior shadows. He stopped short, his grip instinctively tightening around his crop. His dark brows came together—something was amiss. Then it struck him. The doors shouldn’t be ajar like that. Higgins wouldn’t be up and about his duties for a good while yet—nothing short of Gabriel sounding the final awakening would induce the old man out of his bed until it was absolutely necessary.

Davenport started forward again, slowly, quietly, every muscle tensed. At that moment, a lad of no more than fifteen or sixteen years emerged from the murky depths of the building, leading a fully saddled Nero. The earl’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

The scamp was stealing his horse!

“You there! Stand where you are!” he bellowed as he broke into a run.

The lad’s head came up with a start. He appeared frozen for a second but then moved with astonishing quickness. Thrusting a boot into the shortening stirrups, he vaulted into the saddle and jammed his heels into the stallion’s flanks. Nero tossed his head wildly and shied to one side, but the boy handled the reins with skill. His heels came down again, urging the animal forward. Davenport’s outstretched hand missed the bridle by inches.

“Damnation!” he roared as he skittered to a stop and watched them gallop out across the field.

But luck was with him. As the horse came to the edge of the woods, the boy chose the cart path to the right. The earl still had a chance to catch them. He turned and ran into the stable. Cursing roundly as he barked his shins more than once in the darkness, he found the other saddle and bridle and hurried to the stall of his other horse. The animal had no chance of catching a prime goer like Nero, but he didn’t have to. Davenport finished tightening the girth and mounted, an ominous expression on his face. He set his own mount off at a good clip. Unless the lad had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would stick to the beaten path.

Well, if he did, he was going to run into a little surprise.

Davenport guided his mount through an adjoining field. They cleared a tumbled stone wall and skirted the edges of a newly planted field of wheat. In the middle of a large copse of beeches, the earl guided his horse onto a narrow trail, barely wide enough to pass through without the branches slapping at his boots and breeches. They emerged at right angles to a wider path, whose ruts and ridges gave evidence of frequent cart travel. Davenport smiled in grim satisfaction and reined his horse to a halt. It appeared they were in time. In the distance, he could hear the muffled rhythm of pounding hooves.

A dark shape rounded the corner. The earl could just make out the lad’s head bent low over Nero’s neck, still urging the big stallion to give his best effort. And no doubt Nero was in clover. There was nothing he liked better than to be allowed to race neck and leather through the countryside.

 Traitor, thought Davenport sourly as he readied his own horse to match strides with him.

The thief had the benefit of speed and stamina while Davenport had the element of surprise. The earl liked his chances.

As his stallion approached, Davenport charged from the cover of the trees. He drew alongside  and reached for the reins. Nero shied violently to the right. Knowing his stallion’s habits, Davenport was ready for it. The lad was not. As the earl’s hand instinctively followed the movement of the horse’s head, the sudden change of stride pitched the young rider forward. He lost his stirrups and slipped sideways from the saddle. Both of his hands clung to the edges of the leather while his feet hung precariously close to the flailing hooves. The earl managed to grab the reins and fought to bring the spooked stallion under control. Suddenly, with a sharp yelp of pain, the lad’s grip gave out with one of his hands. In another moment he would be trampled.

Serves him right, thought Davenport to himself. His own neck was at risk too, trying to manage two wildly galloping animals. But with a silent curse he let go of Nero and reached down to grab the lad by the collar of his jacket.

 “Let go!” he shouted, as he reined in on his own mount.

 The youngster needed no encouragement. His strength was gone and the last of his fingers slipped from the saddle. Davenport’s mount was too winded to offer any resistance to the pressure on the reins. The animal slowed to a trot, then stopped dead in its tracks, sides heaving and sweat lathering its flanks. The earl held the young thief by the scruff of his jacket, as if he were disposing of a weasel from a dovecot. It took great restraint not to wring the lad’s neck as he would that of an offending predator. Instead he satisfied himself by dropping the lad none too gently onto the rutted ground.

“You damn young fool,” cursed the earl as he dismounted. “I should take my crop to you. Don’t you know you could be trans—”

It was then that he noticed that the lad’s hat had fallen off. There was a mass of hair, honey colored hair, spilling over the pale face. His eyes traveled lower, to where a pair of slender—and very shapely— thighs were revealed by a pair of tight buckskin breeches. With a start he realized they were his breeches, from when he was a boy.

He closed his eyes and groaned.

Caroline lay in the dirt, too stunned to move. The pain in her shoulder was so intense that she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

“You!” roared Davenport. His face had lost the look of blank surprise and was now clouded with anger. “You nearly got both of us killed! What the bloody hell were you thinking, trying to ride a blooded stallion?”

She struggled to a sitting position, clutching at her arm. The oversized jacket had slipped on her shoulder, making her look even smaller and more vulnerable. Her face was pinched and streaked with mud while her lips were pressed tightly together, trying to suppress the slight quiver at their corners. Yet when she looked up at him her eyes held only a spirited determination. “I ride as well as any man—it was you who caused the problem by charging out of the bushes like a...a highwayman.” she managed to retort.

His jaw dropped in astonishment. “A bloody highwayman,” he sputtered. “You impudent chit. You were stealing my horse!”

 “I wasn’t exactly stealing him. I was going to give him back.” She brushed away the  loose curls that had fallen to obscure half of her face. It was obvious he was furious. She knew the prudent course of action was to remain silent, to allow his anger to simmer down from its initial boil. But for some reason she couldn’t stop herself from going on, more because defiance helped keep her own half frightened spirits up than to intentionally goad him on..

“You know, you should give him his head more often—a top of the trees horse like that needs a good run to keep him up to snuff.”

 Davenport wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What?” he asked in an ominously low voice.

“I said, I hope  you know how to handle him properly.”

 His eyes were as dark as smoldering embers. “You call that handling him properly, flying neck and leather out of control? It’s a wonder he didn’t throw you sooner.”

 “I was not out of control! I’ll have you know I have been riding blooded stallions since I was six and can handle a mount as well—or better— than most men.”

He couldn’t quite believe he was standing here brangling with her. His eyes went down to her breeches and boots. “So you like something spirited between your legs?” he snapped.

Caroline’s eyes followed his. She had worn breeches around Lucien and her father’s grooms for ages, but suddenly her legs looked, well, nearly naked. Color flooded her face and unconsciously she curled up like a hedgehog. The movement sent a jolt of pain shot through her shoulder, causing her to bite her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.

He looked as if to say something, then walked over to where she lay. “Are you all right?” he asked curtly.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She was determined not to disgrace herself by crying out or casting up her accounts for the second time in front of the earl. She would take whatever punishment he chose to mete out like...a man. Rumor had it the man possessed a devil of a temper. What would he—

He reached down and lifted her to her feet. When her legs buckled slightly, his arm came around her waist. “Come. Sit down over here.”

He guided her to a fallen tree by the side of the path and settled her on its broad trunk. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Caroline took a few deep breaths and the pain and dizziness subsided.

“Better?”

 She nodded again.