The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 17

  “Bakeley. Kincaid.”

  “Leaving you unguarded, unprotected.” She shook her head. “No.”

  “That’s how it must be. I’ll hire runners, but when it comes down to it, I can look after myself.”

  She bit her lip. Stood. Sighed. Picked up the brandy bottle and reached for his glass, letting her robe flop open.

  His shaft stirred and he swallowed a chuckle. She was trying a new tactic.

  He rested a hand on her round bottom and some of the brandy spilled over the side of the glass.

  She turned her attention on him, her eyes veiled by long lashes that shimmered.

  Tears. Real or summoned, he wished he knew. All spies were liars, and whether she’d inherited her parents’ skills, he couldn’t tell, not yet.

  “I will not leave you unprotected,” she said. “I will not let you go into danger without me.” Her husky voice turned the ripple running through him into high waves. His hand moved over the soft curves.

  Desire, hot and urgent, rose and swamped him, wiping out fatigue, and thirst, and hunger for anything but her. “Will you not?” He slipped the slick silk out of its knot, dragged the tips of his fingers down her leg and lifted the hem of the gown, all the while inching her nearer.

  Her knuckles went white round the head of the bottle. He was, perhaps, in danger of a coshing.

  “You’ll protect me? Make sure I’m unharmed?” he whispered.

  “You must promise, Bink. You must promise to take me.”

  Aye, he would take her. “Love, will you release the brandy bottle?”

  Her eyes widened. Her gaze flitted to the bottle, and he saw the moment she recognized the weapon in her hand. He shouldn’t have brought it to her attention.

  Perhaps now coshing would come as naturally to her as kissing and coupling.

  He chuckled. A man could not complain about two out of three.

  “You must promise, Bink.”

  “I’ll promise. I’ll promise to talk about it more.” He sent his hand up under the thin silk, and watched her eyes darken and glaze.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise and—oh.” The bottle plopped, tipped, and a river of sweet-scented amber coursed over the table.

  Bink pulled her out of its path, onto his lap. Brandy laced the top of her foot. He tipped her back, brought her foot up and licked it clean, down to the tips of each toe.

  She gasped and wriggled.

  When he released her foot, he lifted her into a straddle, and pushed her thin silks high, drawing her closer until her breasts huddled against him, muddling his brain, rendering all of his senses to only that softness, that seal of her skin against his.

  “We’re not finished.” Her breath came in tiny, barely audible puffs. “With this discussion.”

  And then her kiss took away all his ability to think.

  Chapter 17

  As a husband, Bink Gibson was proving to be a puzzle, one she was struggling to solve. He played many characters—bluff yeoman, shrewd steward, fierce warrior, skilled lover.

  No. That last wasn’t a character. That was truly him. He’d been crafty enough turning her own plan to seduce a promise out of him into a ravishment.

  Heat rose in her face, and she shifted on her seat, her foot hitting one of the two hampers of food Bink had insisted on. They’d not stopped except to change horses and replenish those hampers.

  Thankfully, the two maids slept, giving Paulette time to think. The pace of this grueling trip made them collapse, almost immediately, but she could not sleep, not after her wedding night, not after what she’d discovered.

  And what was that, Paulette?

  Warmth curled in her heart, warmth that felt like joy.

  Or could it be love? She pushed it down. She had no sense of how such feelings could last, and perhaps she had no right. They’d married for money, hadn’t they?

  Besides, Gibson was being obstinate, and she didn’t entirely trust him. He’d promised they’d talk about going to London, but after one more round of lovemaking, she’d awakened alone in her bed and found Mabel and Jenny mopping up brandy and packing her bag for a hasty departure.

  Word had come, in the person of two hard-riding Greencastle grooms. Spellen had gone missing, Agruen was bound for London, and cavalry was advancing on Manchester. Her husband had shared the news during their hurried breakfast, and promised they’d talk about London later, after he’d brought her safely to Greencastle.

  Perhaps he thought when they reached Hackwell’s estate, he would talk, and she would listen. Perhaps he thought he would lock her up with Lord and Lady Hackwell, or transport her to Cransdall.

  He could try.

  She leaned against the squab, wriggled her aching bottom, and let her eyes drift shut. They’d not stopped the night, nor would they, and each change she managed to stay awake for taught her something new. She’d learned much on this trip about traveling, about inns, about the coaching system. Her funds would hold her until London.

  Outside, a low conversation rumbled, audible, but not understandable. Their numbers had swollen to include the two new Hackwell grooms, ex-soldiers Mabel had learned, and Kincaid’s two Scotsmen. And Bink had tied her knife’s sheath to her arm. If need be, go for something soft, he’d said. The belly, the kidneys, the eye.

  The eye. The thought made her insides squirm, and she scolded herself. Jock had told her the same thing, years ago, when he’d tutored her. And she must not be squeamish. Her mama hadn’t been, Jock had said. If it came to it, she would defend herself and her maids.

  She must stay awake. She must at least try. The ache of her bones, the prospect of a fight, the plots to be made about escaping to London, all kept her on edge. A day, a night, and another day—if her husband could stay awake seated atop a horse, so could she in this plush coach.

  A smattering of bedraggled walkers, men and a surprising number of women, had stepped to the side for them, eying the coach, the riders, the servants up top, and especially, the butt of the pistol at Kincaid’s waist, and the shotgun in the hired Scotsman’s grip.

  Bink had kept his pair of Mantons more carefully concealed. When he’d stopped to question the first group for news, fear had shut them up tight. They’d not been at St. Peter’s Field, they said, and he knew they were lying, looking over their shoulders with wary eyes. Something had happened, and maybe these were the rabbits who’d run at the first sight of the uniformed foxes.

  Fools, they were, the lords, and the soldiers serving them. People were starving. The war had wreaked havoc abroad, and the peace was doing so here.

  At the last coaching inn, he’d hurried the women through their privy stop, picked up two new hampers of food, and heard from the innkeeper the rumor of a great bloody riot, a trampling to death of men, and women too. A bloody power play that set him fuming, and worrying more.

  He was dead in his saddle, and tried to hide it, else he’d shame himself in front of Kincaid, who sat erect, alert, determination written upon his face.

  And just what that bit with the tartan had been about, Bink would like to know. Kincaid didn’t seem a man to go weak about a girl’s wedding—a spy wouldn’t be sentimental, but he’d offer lies aplenty. Kincaid hadn’t convinced Bink he was a Scot neither, no matter how he curled his words.

  Ah, but if he were, that might explain the plaid. Weren’t the Scots, like the Irish, a hard-nosed bunch who, with enough whisky flowing, would drop to a sniffle at the sound of a ballad?

  The two Scotsmen they’d acquired held their part well. Greencastle was mere hours away. They’d rest there, consult with Hackwell or his lady if either still remained, and assess the security of the estate, which was still his to manage. Since leaving Gretna, they’d traveled with all haste. No inn stops of any length.

  They’d left the high dales and come into a stretch of tall beech hedges, the farmland beyond thick with corn. The harvest would be soon, if these fools didn’t burn down the country.

  He was glad he’d shared the expr
ess from Hackwell with Paulette. When he’d told her of the danger on the roads, his bride hadn’t been cowed. The courage that flashed in her eyes, well, if Mabel hadn’t been in the antechamber, if the team hadn’t already been hitched, he’d have taken her again.

  He sighed. He was a beast after all, bothering her all night and then throwing her into a bouncing coach for days. Surely the girl was sore. Though when he thought of it, she’d not complained about the pain from his great manly shaft in her.

  He’d fixed her knife’s sheath to her forearm and tucked a spare knife into the seat next to her. He would have given her a pistol if she’d known how to load it. That ignorance, he’d remedy later.

  The daughter of spies, she’d said. Well, he couldn’t teach her the spy’s knack of lying, but he wouldn’t deny her the basics of a soldier’s knowledge.

  As soon as he felt assured she would not use the pistol on him.

  His loins stirred. A night of making love had not sufficed for either of them, but he must give his brash bride the rest and the chance to mend she did not know she needed. And he must get her to safety.

  And then, he must dodge her next spy’s tactic, whatever it might be.

  Her obsession about London was not likely to abate, but his gut told him there was more to the story than what she was sharing.

  The woman was a bother, but as long as she bothered him in bed he could accept almost anything.

  Perhaps he could take her to London. He’d promised, and they had enough outriders to keep her safe. But there was still the danger that Shaldon spoke of to contend with—about what, he still didn’t know, but he had a feeling Paulette did.

  Hackwell House was no safer than Greencastle, though. Agruen would look for her there.

  An inn or a hotel maybe. Or Annabelle Harris’s house in Soho.

  Ah, now that was an idea.

  The house stood, almost vacant now, with only old Mr. Lewis and his new wife as caretakers. No one would know about that house, and Mr. Lewis had proven himself a man who could keep secrets.

  No one would know to look for Paulette there, but they could follow her home from one of the outings she was certain to make. And the neighborhood was on the edge of a seedy area.

  He would have to muse more on this. Short of locking her up at Greencastle or Cransdall, he didn’t have a solution.

  A crackle of gravel, a shuffle of leaves, and the low murmur of voices came to him over the creaking of the coach’s wheels, stirring his senses.

  Around the next bend, a crowd of walkers appeared, tramping along in the middle of the already cramped road, sticks in hand, heads to the ground, like bloody hounds of the shire. The post boys saw them too and between him and the men up top, had the devil of the time halting the team before running them over.

  Another wave of apprehension sparked through him. His hand went to his pistols while he scanned the crowd. All men. He spotted no women in this group, not even dirty, disheveled ones dressed like men.

  Kincaid shot him a glance, and all of his nerves prickled. It was easy enough to mix trouble in with a group like this.

  Bink brought his horse up the steep bank and leaned close to the coach window. Paulette peered through the lowered glass.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Be on your guard. And stay inside.” He spurred and moved up with the fidgety team. Kincaid shadowed him, and Johnny and the others surrounded the coach. They were all armed, even Ewan.

  He counted bodies, a dozen, perhaps fifteen, and all of them marked with fatigue, the dust of the road, and anger. There were no shivering rabbits here. Whatever the army had done, they hadn’t cowed this group. They’d only stirred more ire.

  This crowd could easily flank them and endanger Paulette. And if one of them should be Agruen’s hired man…

  He raised a hand and fixed a deep frown. “Good day. Coming from that madness in Manchester, are ye?” He scanned the group. They jostled and exchanged glances and grumbles.

  Who doesn’t fit in?

  A spokesman emerged, a thin man, a bit better off, from the looks of his coat. “What’s it to you?” Weariness lined his face, but his voice was vibrant. And wrathful.

  “We’re wanting news, man,” Kincaid said in a thick burr. “My new son-in-law and I, we’ve just come from Gretna. What the hell happened at St. Peter’s Field? What have those fool mill owners done?”

  A smile creased the man’s face. Not yet a friendly one, which worried him more.

  “A wedding? Caught up with the villain, did you?” He scratched at his scruff. “Want us to take care of him for you?”

  Bink moved his horse a step closer. “Here now. I had his blessing and the wedding was honorable, traveling as I did to marry with her kin being present.”

  “Aye. And I’m seeing to my girl’s safe delivery to her new home. Will you tell us what happened? Will the bloody British soldiers be trampling us down afore I can bring her to safety?”

  There.

  Bink wheeled his horse to the verge where two men were sidling closer. He sent them his sergeant’s glare. “Are ye all mates? All together?”

  The two men glared back. He fingered a pistol at his waist, strained to define the difference between them and the others, and could not. It was only instinct discerning. “These two here. Were they with you at the gathering?”

  “T’were thousands there,” one man grumbled.

  “We saw women before,” Kincaid said. “There are no women with you.”

  The spokesman drew himself up to his full height. “There were many, it’s true, but we wouldn’t allow our women to such as this. And we’re honest laborers, not highwaymen. Leave off.”

  Tension crackled. The two suspicious ones merged back with the larger group. Kincaid’s man with a shotgun had turned their way, and Bink backed out of the Scotsman’s range.

  “See if they’re hungry, Da.” The voice, feminine, loud, and convincingly burred, reached all the way to the crowd of men.

  Blast her. The coach door opened a crack.

  Ewan swung from the roof like a carnival trickster and both of his feet hit the door. “I’ll see to them, mistress,” he said.

  The boy was fast, like his kin, who’d reined up behind Bink.

  Ah well, Johnny was Shaldon’s man, as was the young Ewan.

  Inside the coach, Paulette muttered a curse as the door shut firmly, and leaned down to shift one of the hampers of food wedged up against her lap desk, all of it crowding her feet.

  “Thieves?” Jenny asked.

  “Weavers, most likely, come from the demonstration.” Mabel gripped Paulette’s hand. “Leave it to the boy.”

  “Mistress.” The ginger-haired man at her window was Johnny and he kept his voice low. “There may be goats in this sheep herd. Keep low, mistress.”

  Fear pricked every nerve. Hand shaking, she fingered her knife and pulled her bonnet lower.

  Mabel stumbled over the hampers and sat next to her.

  “Mind the knife in the seat,” Paulette whispered.

  Mabel shifted and brought out the sheathed knife. “I don’t know how to use this.”

  “I do,” Jenny said.

  Paulette nodded, and Mabel handed it over.

  She leaned her ear to the open window. Mr. Gibson was asking questions, gathering information about the rally and the riot that had followed, about the army’s attack, the workers’ grievances. In the long stretches of listening, she could not make out the responses.

  He was acutely interested, though, that much she could tell, and so could the men on the road. His interest and sincerity would disarm them, she hoped.

  “As my wife suggested,” he boomed loudly, “we have food to share if you’ll have it.”

  Men’s voices rumbled and the door opened. Ewan tipped his hat and pulled out one of the hampers.

  “Take them both.” Paulette nudged the other one over.

  This was why he’d purchased them and kept them filled—not to push forward
without ceasing, but to buy them some peace on the road.

  She watched from the window as he directed Ewan. Buying peace wasn’t his only reason—Bink Gibson had real compassion for those men and women, running from their own British troops. He had a strong protective instinct, and not just for the woman he’d taken to wife.

  With an estate and an income, he’d never leave for India. He’d always be underfoot, slamming the coach doors closed if he thought there was danger.

  And she’d not yet told him of her father’s treasure.

  The carriage began to move and as they rolled down the road, she saw men grouped on the embankment, delving into the food baskets. At a flat stretch, they picked up speed. From a fast walk, to a trot, to almost a gallop.

  Goats in the herd. How many? If they were afoot they couldn’t catch up with them, could they?

  She frowned out of the window. What would Agruen’s men do?

  They wouldn’t really travel afoot. They’d pretend, they’d walk a short way with the group. They’d have horses tucked nearby.

  “I’ll give you this back, miss.” Jenny held out the knife to her.

  She shook her head. “Best keep it handy, Jenny. We’ve given away all our food. We may still have need of it.”

  When they came to a rough patch of road the coach slowed. She stuck her head out the window and called “Mr. Gibson.”

  His head went up, and he let the coach roll until he was next to her.

  “Are you angry with me then?” he asked, looking grim.

  “I’m being polite in front of the servants. I wish to speak with you.”

  She craned her neck to look up at him. His gaze was cast down the road ahead, not backward, as it should be.

  “Is it possible we will be followed?”

  “Yes. But we’ve dealt with it.”

  “How?”

  “Kincaid’s two Scotsmen are straying behind us. Do not worry.”

  She let out a breath. Perhaps it was well they had four extra men. Perhaps her husband could get her to London safely without requiring the poke of her knife into someone’s eye. As exciting as the prospect might be, she didn’t want to have to try it.