The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Read online

His insides roared, and he all but strained himself to speak gently. “We’ll see about that. Let me help you.” He tugged at the lady’s parcels until she released them, and tied them onto his horse.

  Her hands fisted and she looked away while he took the maid’s burdens also. Anger rippled off Miss Heardwyn, but it was overlaid with grief, and astonishment, and an icy kind of fear.

  He’d seen this before, women and children wide-eyed, stunned, hungry, cold. Homeless.

  But now you can do something about it, man.

  He was not under orders now, not really. His business at home would just have to wait. Hackwell would understand, and if he didn’t, his lady most certainly would.

  “We’re going back and getting what’s yours.” He circled his hands at her so-tiny waist and hauled her up onto his horse.

  “What—” she gasped and clung to the horse’s mane.

  Her long skirts rode up, revealing a nicely turned ankle and calf, and the anger inside him stirred to something more feral.

  That comely ankle and calf could be his, to look at, to touch. He had only to press her a bit. He inwardly shook himself.

  “Hold on, miss.”

  He swung the maid up next, eliciting a shriek.

  “Quiet now, Miss Mabel. You’ll startle the horse.” Though he’d doubt much would shake this doddering old eunuch. When his own mount had stumbled in last night’s violent rain, this gelding had been the only saddle-horse left at the inn where they’d sought help. “He’s a sweet enough goer. If you’ll pull up your skirts you may sit astride with more comfort, and no one’s the wiser. We’ll take you down before anyone can see.”

  The maid hiked up her skirt and scooted around her mistress’s grumping.

  “Are we going back then?” Miss Heardwyn’s voice, now that she’d found it, was laced with danger.

  “Aye.” Bink took the gelding’s reins and led him off.

  “And then what, Mr. Gibson?” Her voice trembled with suppressed fury.

  He looked straight ahead, through the overhanging trees hedging the fields.

  Then I shall introduce Mr. Cummings to my fists.

  “We’ll get your things, then.”

  The horse stumbled and Mabel gasped again.

  “Don’t worry ladies. Just hold on.”

  There was nothing untoward about Mr. Gibson’s touch when he lifted Paulette down from the mount, yet the strength of his hands seared her and incited a burn in her cheeks.

  She bent and straightened her skirts, and more blood rushed, making her dizzy. Mabel gasped when the horse side-stepped and prattled about being too heavy. Mr. Gibson grunted—Mabel was no light-weight—and muttered a polite reassurance.

  When she’d straightened herself and had the opportunity to look, Mr. Gibson was frowning.

  No. Not frowning. Frowning implied some minor disturbance. A deep line creased his set-in-stone forehead, running between his eyes like a water-carved cliff she’d once seen in an illustration, and tension radiated off him like the rays off the sun, sending some of its heat her way.

  Mabel was right—he was a handsome man. He bent and checked the horse over, the tight curve of his buttocks inspiring more blushes, and she imagined his back muscles bunching and moving under his tightly fitted jacket as he tested the girth and the leather.

  He went to a bag strapped to the saddle and pulled out a pistol.

  Her heart soared with hope, even as she knew she was on the brink of something unknowable. She wanted her home back, and yet she didn’t. The future was a black yawning hole, but with any luck, Mr. Gibson would shoot Mr. Cummings and she’d have that tiny bit of reckoning.

  “Surely it won’t come to pistols, sir,” Mabel said in a small voice.

  “No, surely it won’t,” he said carefully. “But one can never be absolutely sure with a thief. Are you ready, ladies?”

  Dismay overtook her in the small yard. Her lap desk sat haphazardly in the wagon, leaning against a crate. Cummings’ man had yanked it from her, and when she’d slapped him, well…

  She took a breath. Cummings had raised a hand to her. That, she would never forget. That, she would find a way to avenge.

  Two other men, farmers who leased from Mr. Cummings, met her eyes and looked away quickly.

  Mr. Gibson handed the reins to Mabel. “Where is Cummings?” he asked.

  Their gaze slid toward the door. Cummings stepped out, coatless and hatless, his bristled grey hair pulled tight across sunken temples into a queue.

  He launched himself across the green toward Paulette. “I told you to leave.”

  Mr. Gibson stepped in front of her. “Hold there. Miss Heardwyn is not leaving without her belongings.”

  Cummings’ stinging gaze flicked from her to Mr. Gibson, and a shrewd smile turned his lips up. “Who be you?”

  “My name is Gibson, and I speak for the Earl of Shaldon.”

  The factotum appeared behind him and spat into the dirt.

  “Who was buried yesterday,” Cummings said.

  Paulette sidestepped her champion. “And succeeded by his son. And that is my lap desk. It was a gift from my father and it is rightfully mine.”

  Let Cummings try to hit her with Gibson by her side.

  “You think so.” Cummings drew closer. “I don’t know who your man here is, Paulette, but this cottage and all its contents are mine, as of yesterday.”

  “He told you who he is. And you’ve offered no proof of ownership,” she said.

  “I don’t need to show you proof.”

  “Yes. You must. Otherwise what you’re doing is theft.” She looked at the men loading the wagon and the factotum. “And you men are complicit. If there is no proper bill of sale, I’ll bring charges against all of you.” She crossed her fingers under her skirts. “I’m not without means.”

  Cummings laughed. “I see. You have your big fancy-man here—”

  Cummings’ head popped back, the impact of a large fist toppling him backwards into his man.

  “A right good one,” Mabel said from behind her. “Land him another, Mr. Gibson.”

  Mr. Gibson brushed his hands together. “I have a copy of the document. I’ll share it with you later, Miss Heardwyn. For now, I need you to instruct these men which items you wish them to remove from the cart.”

  “I’ll bring charges against you,” Cummings spluttered, his man helping him up. “You assaulted me.”

  “And you impugned this lady’s honor.”

  That deep line appeared again creasing his brow.

  “And mine, Cummings. But very well, send your man for the magistrate. I’ll share my documents with him, and bring charges against you. Theft. On a scale large enough to have you transported.” He nodded at the workers. “And them as well.”

  The men looked at each other, their countenances going grim, but at a look from Cummings, they hunched closer.

  She feared for Mr. Gibson’s safety. Surely he couldn’t take on the two farmers, Mr. Cummings, and the squirrely factotum. His pistol would have only one round.

  She stepped up next to him and fisted her hands.

  The creaking of wheels in the lane drew everyone’s attention.

  The men on the box of an open wagon she recognized—Lord Shaldon’s manservant held the reins, and next to him on the box was the vicar. “Sorry for the delay, sir,” the manservant said. “The man of God wanted to come along.”

  A rush of relief mingled with a profound embarrassment as she greeted the vicar. He’d found a new mother for his ever-increasing brood, and they’d remained friends, yet he was probably pitying her.

  The vicar nodded a greeting to the two laborers. “Are you evicting Paulette on the Sabbath, Cummings?” he asked in the sonorous tone he used for his sermons.

  “Good of you to finally make it, Kincaid.” Mr. Gibson introduced himself to the Vicar and said, “Cummings was indeed throwing Miss Heardwyn into the road and taking her possessions, even down to her clothing, I believe. Although what a man would
do with a young lady’s clothing I have no idea.” He cast a glance her way. “Though he’s only a bit taller than you, Miss Heardwyn. Perhaps the dresses will fit.”

  She covered a laugh, and Cummings spluttered. “See here—”

  “Now. Let’s make a short Sabbath job of this. Miss Heardwyn. Tell Lord Shaldon’s man what is yours and have your maid pack your things. Kincaid, make sure everything is properly loaded.”

  “My pots. And the ham.” Mabel walked past them, stopped, and turned. “And Horace.”

  Paulette’s heart swelled. Cummings was a harsh master, even to dumb beasts. It was parting with Horace that had started her tears.

  “Horace is mine.” Cummings cried.

  Mr. Gibson raised an eyebrow.

  She forced down another giggle threatening to rise as a great weight was lifted. “He’s my horse. My Horace. It was a great joke when I named him, you see? He was a gift from Bakeley on my eighteenth birthday. He and a gig I, er, no longer have.”

  She had overturned it, attempting to get Horace to move a little faster on unsuitable terrain. Mr. Gibson did not need to know that story.

  And yet he seemed to read her mind. His face softened and humor glimmered golden in his eyes. “Not the great beast that brought you to Cransdall Hall?”

  Her heart floated higher. She nodded and pressed her lips together. She did not want to smile, not in front of Cummings.

  He signaled to one of the men. “Get the lady’s horse.”

  Before Cummings could grumble, more rattling wheels sounded as two riders in Cransdall livery preceded a post-chaise with its postilion riding one of a pair of greys.

  The bright afternoon sun hit Paulette squarely in the eyes.

  “Where are we going, Polly,” Mabel asked. “Did he say?”

  She’d been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”

  They’d turned west when they should have turned north if they’d been headed back to Cransdall, and she’d not had a chance at either of the inns where they’d changed horses to talk to Mr. Gibson. He’d sent the groom to hurry them along at each stop.

  Well. That wouldn’t work at the next one. He would speak with her there.

  She saw the clump of pretty buildings nestled in a valley and knew this must be an inn. It looked to be grander than the last two, the stables forming three sides of a square around it.

  When the post-chaise drew up in front of the door, one of Shaldon’s grooms appeared at the side, tipping his hat and extending a hand.

  The half-timbered building rose to three well-maintained stories. “What is this place?” Paulette asked.

  “I don’t know the name, miss, but the mail coach comes through, and the Edinburgh coach, and I heard Mr. Gibson say it’s the only inn in ten miles without bed bugs.”

  Her foot landed in a puddle. “Blast it,” she said. She still wore her gown with its fringe of mud. “Watch your step, Mabel.”

  She glanced back and saw an inn servant unstrap her valise. A stableman led the chaise off, and the wagon, piled with her trunks and small bits of furniture, followed behind with Horace tied to the back.

  Alarm coursed through her. No bed bugs. He meant for them to stay the night here in this great, likely high-priced, establishment. “Where is Mr. Gibson?”

  “I don’t know, miss.”

  “You don’t know much,” she snapped.

  She closed her eyes and took a breath. It was not his fault. He was only a groom.

  But when she opened her eyes, he was smiling. He was missing a tooth, and was, she realized, quite a bit older than her first estimation. Another redhead, only this one had the lean lines of a hunting hound.

  “It’s what me mum always says, miss, but I’ve told you true. I’m to lead you inside to a private dining room and stay with you like a footman until you’re settled and safe and your tea is brought in.”

  “Those are very specific instructions.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “From Mr Gibson?”

  “No, miss. From Mr. Kincaid.”

  Her heart sank just a little, and she chided herself.

  Mabel caught up with them. “Johnny—”

  “Johnny?”

  “Well, it’s his name.” Mabel studied the cobblestone entry. “I’ll look after my miss, Johnny, and you can go find your dinner.”

  “I allow as I can, Miss Mabel, but I haven’t lasted this long doing what I can instead of what I’ve been told to do. And me seeing Mr. Gibson talking to Mr. Kincaid, afore Mr. Kincaid talked to me.”

  Paulette’s heart beat a little faster.

  Mabel opened her mouth, preparing for one of her speeches, like when she’d been Paulette’s nursemaid eons ago. Her plump cheeks went rosier than usual and her lips trembled somewhere between a smile and a scolding.

  Johnny’s eyes twinkled, focused solely on the maid.

  A groan found its way up her throat. She’d seen one or two of Mabel’s romances over the years. They’d come to naught, as would this, if the maid planned to stay with her.

  “We’ll not have an argument on the steps of this inn, Mabel. Johnny, deliver us into the parlor and then go and find Mr. Gibson. I must speak to him immediately.”

  Chapter 6

  Paulette surveyed the room while an inn servant poured tea. The paneled walls gleamed with a fresh oiling, and the aged stone floor had been scrubbed to a dull finish without a speck of the road dust and mud from outside. No fire burned in the well-swept hearth, but the day had been warm.

  The maid closed the door and Mabel passed her a cup. “Drink up, then, Polly,” Mabel said. “And don’t you be worrying. Mr. Gibson will see to the accounting, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not worrying,” she lied.

  With Cummings distracted by Mr. Gibson and his men, she’d recovered her bit of money and stowed it away in a pocket.

  Cummings’ man had looked for money. She’d seen him pawing through drawers and testing the floorboards, but not the panels along the wall of the kitchen. Oh, he’d checked the shelves and lifted the lid on every jar, but he couldn’t spring a panel loose if he didn’t know the spring was there.

  She had money, but it must be stretched. She needed to see the solicitor in London, and perhaps meet with her trustees if they were in town.

  And if she could find the lord who’d made her first visit to Cransdall so miserable, well, she didn’t need to be a lady of fashion to take back what was hers.

  She swallowed a sigh. Cransdall was not a lucky place for her, not the first time she’d been there, nor this second. There would not be a third. She’d track down Lord Agruen and recover her mother’s ring, and somehow she’d find the treasure Jock said her father had left her. Lord Shaldon—both lords, old and new—were irrelevant to her now. Neither would stand in her way.

  Only one stumbling block remained, and he would be joining her soon.

  Kincaid grunted through Bink’s instructions about securing Miss Heardwyn’s goods, making it ever more clear to Bink the man was not an upper crust batman at all. Whatever his role for Lord Shaldon, it had been much more than washing his smalls and scraping off his beard.

  Whatever grief Kincaid felt for his master’s death, he was keeping it in. Probably, if he’d been abroad with the spymaster, he’d seen enough to take dying in stride.

  The older of the two grooms from Cransdall trotted up. “She’s wishing to speak to you, Mr. Gibson,” he said.

  “Is she now?”

  “Aye. She and her jolly maid have sat down to tea, and there’s a third cup awaiting you, sir.”

  He’d delivered that information straight-faced.

  “Have we met before?” Bink asked. “Johnny, is it?”

  Johnny grinned. “You were a boy, and I was but a little more than one meself. I never seen the young lord smile so much as when you were there, then and now, truth to be told. He said I’m to stay with you as long as you wish.”

  Bakeley had settled him with another dependent. At this r
ate he’d have all of Little Norwick staffed for the lady. If they were to marry.

  The other groom, a freckle-faced youth, was arranging straw for his resting place to take the first watch over the wagon.

  Johnny noticed his glance. “Ewan, there, is me nephew. A good fellow. He’ll serve you right also.”

  Bink laughed. Bakeley was having him on. In Bink’s present state, he didn’t need a valet and two grooms. Or a wife, for that matter. Bakeley, or rather, this new incarnation of Lord Shaldon, was applying the weight of a fait accompli.

  And to hell with that. He’d diverted them to this inn for a good night’s rest, and tomorrow he was returning them to Cransdall.

  When he entered the parlor, Paulette looked up, and then jumped up, rattling the plates at her elbow.

  A crumb clung to the corner of her mouth, sending a jolt through him.

  If he licked it away, he could taste her.

  He managed a greeting, tore his gaze away and surveyed the room. He’d stopped here once with Lady Hackwell and the children. It was as tidy now as it had been then. “I trust you are comfortable,” he added.

  “Mr. Gibson…” She swallowed.

  “And the food was palatable.”

  She nodded, wringing the napkin in her hands.

  “I can see it was.” He poked at the corner of his mouth and watched as her color rose and she dabbed at herself.

  He squashed the urge to smile and pulled out a chair. “Johnny did say there was a third cup here and I see there’s a third plate also. May I eat while we talk?”

  “Of course.” She seated herself.

  The maid, who had moved off to the side, bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll just go and check on our things.”

  “No.” Bink waved her to a settee near the fireplace. “Please sit, Mabel.”

  “Yes, Mabel. Do not leave us. You may count on her discretion, Mr. Gibson.”

  He’d already seen that the maid and the lady were thick as thieves. She’d been Miss Heardwyn’s nursemaid, Bakeley had said.

  So far, Bink had heard no whispering among the staff about Shaldon’s plans for a wedding, and he didn’t wish to. Still he’d prefer that kind of gossip to rumors he’d compromised the lady in the inn’s private dining room. That rumor would certainly result in the wedding neither one of them wanted.