Part 2 (1/2)

Thank G.o.d the gloom hid his reaction. What confidence could she have in a rescuer who trembled like a willow at the merest shadow?

”We're ready.”

She straightened and wrapped the coat around her like a cape. He supposed she couldn't bear to force her injured arm into a sleeve. As she looked up, he caught the s.h.i.+ne of her eyes. ”Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged, trying to appear as if aiding stray maidens was his everyday activity. ”You need help.”

”It doesn't seem enough when I see the trouble you've taken.”

”It will earn me points in heaven,” he said with a lightness he didn't feel. He extended the bundle he held. ”I thought you might like this.”

She didn't immediately take it. ”What is it?”

”A shawl. The night is cold.” And she'd need to cover that distinctive hair when she entered the carriage. Although if he told her that, she'd know he tagged her tale as a pack of lies.

”Where did you get it?” Her voice dripped suspicion.

He hid a smile. She was so wary, so defensive. Yet if he wanted, he could render her unconscious in the blink of an eye. That possibility had occurred to him, but he'd dismissed it. She'd had enough violence done to her.

”Tulliver bought it from a lady at the inn.”

Good thick wool-he thought with a moment's regret of the s.h.i.+mmering, gorgeous fabrics he'd seen in India. He lifted the brown shawl briefly to his nose and sniffed. ”It smells of pug, but you'll welcome its warmth.”

To his surprise, she gave a short huff of laughter. ”I've been sleeping in a stable. A whiff of eau de chien won't unsettle me in the least.”

The chit had backbone. He'd always admired courage, and this girl had more than was good for her. Something tired and rusty and long unfamiliar stirred in his heart. He stifled the unwelcome sensation and offered the shawl once more. ”Miss Watson?”

”Thank you.”

As he'd known she would, she wrapped it around her head and shoulders. In his enveloping greatcoat and with her head covered, she looked almost anonymous. He couldn't miss how she favored her right arm. Was it broken? Again, he wished she'd let him take her to a sawbones.

”And take this, just in case.” He pa.s.sed her the pistol and watched her slip it into the coat's voluminous pockets. ”Do you know how to use it?”

He already knew the answer. She handled the gun with an ease that indicated familiarity.

”Yes. My father was a marksman. He taught me to shoot.”

Gideon shadowed her when they crossed the yard to the waiting carriage. Akash was already up on his temperamental gray.

As Gideon opened the door for Miss Watson, he caught his friend's eye. He wondered what Akash made of the night's events and the new addition to their party. He'd find out, he knew. Just because Akash had said nothing yet didn't mean he had nothing to say.

The girl paused, as if expecting Gideon to hand her up. Yet another clue to a privileged life, if she but knew it. When Gideon didn't respond, she climbed into the carriage.

Tulliver followed, leading his st.u.r.dy mount and Khan, and tied both horses to the back of the coach. Gideon cast a last look around the windswept yard. Ostensibly, n.o.body paid them any attention.

On a frosty night like this, anyone who didn't have to be outside sought what warmth they could. The few servants crossing the open area seemed to mind their own business. Still, old habits died hard, and Gideon took note of the scene's every detail.

Tulliver came up to his side. ”All set, guvnor?”

”Yes.” One last glance to make sure, but n.o.body appeared unduly interested in their little party. ”Let's get under way.”

”Very good.”

Tulliver climbed into the driver's seat. Gideon entered the vehicle where the mysterious Miss Watson, with her sharp tongue and terrified eyes, awaited.

As he surveyed her unkempt figure perched stiffly on the leather-covered bench, he was suddenly aware that for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than weary self-disgust. She made him curious; she made him concerned; she made him care.

Miss Watson was an unlikely miracle worker. He'd lived with wretchedness so long, even this much emotion felt like spring thaw after endless winter.

Wondering what other unexpected results his impulsive actions might yield, he subsided on the seat opposite and closed his eyes in counterfeit slumber. The coach jerked into movement with a crack of the whip and a shout from Tulliver. They jolted out of the inn yard and into the freezing winter night.

Two.

Horrific images haunted Charis's dreams. An endless replaying of Hubert's fists pounding into her while Felix watched with a gloating smile. The wrenching drag on her arm. The final blow to her head that sent her whirling into oblivion.

When she opened scratchy eyes to the lamplit confines of the shabby coach, she expected to hear the echo of her screams. The only sounds were the creaking of the carriage and the howl of the wind. Sir Gideon sprawled opposite, apparently asleep.

Cool, blessed relief flooded her, and she sucked in a shuddering breath that made her bruised ribs twinge. For the moment, she was safe from both Felix and Hubert.

She was shaking, not far from tears, curled into the corner as if she cowered away from the beating. Her jaw throbbed painfully in time with the vehicle's sway. Her injured arm had stiffened into agony, and she bit back a moan as she folded it against her heaving chest.

Long minutes pa.s.sed while she fought dizzying pain. But gradually her head cleared, and her breathing steadied. Using her good arm, she tugged the coat around her like a blanket and turned her attention to her companion. His lean body stretched out with an elegant abandon that made her foolish heart race.

To her shame, not with fear.

When the journey started, she'd braced for interrogation. But Sir Gideon had lounged on the bench, spread his arms along the back of the seat, extended his long booted legs into the corner, and closed his eyes. From the look of him, he'd hardly moved since.

Studying him like this felt like illicit intimacy. Although even now, his expression was guarded, closed. A lock of black hair fell across his brow. It should make him look vulnerable. It didn't.

As her gaze roamed his sculpted features, she realized with a shock that he was close to her age. His air of authority had made her a.s.sume he was in his thirties. But now, with his eyes shut, he didn't look much past twenty-five. Ashamed of her unseemly curiosity, she stared into the loose folds of the coat over her lap.

”Are we near Portsmouth?” she asked in a croaky voice, looking up.

He opened his eyes and regarded her a.s.sessingly. ”No. We're not far out of Winchester.”

The coach drew to a juddering stop. Charis reached forward to push the blinds aside. They were in a large field. The change from road to turf under the wheels must have disturbed her nightmares.

The gra.s.sy area was empty. No lights shone in the distance. They could be a thousand miles from anywhere.

Abruptly what had seemed an acceptable risk in Winchester became a terrifying threat. She was alone and defenseless in an isolated location with three men she didn't know. The hairs on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled, and her throat closed with rising dread.

How could she be so naive? How could she be so fatally stupid? She scrabbled wildly for the door catch. Perhaps in the dark, she had a chance of escape.

”What are you doing?” Sir Gideon asked with what sounded like casual interest.

Was Gideon even his real name?