Chapter Two
Astonished, and not a little proud as she faced them down, Grant moved toward her, growling at the other two. “Be gone!”
For an instant, the man with the knife brandished his weapon. Then he snarled. “Leg it.” And all four of them melted back into the shadows. Grant heard their running footsteps.
Miraculously, the street appeared to be empty once more. Taking no chances, Grant turned a full circle and, still scanning the street, offered Lady Crowmore his arm.
She took it. A quick glance showed him no trace of the little pistol, or any expression of distress.
“Timely intervention, Mr. Grant,” she said calmly. “I am most grateful. What a devastating right hook … for a clergyman.”
“Well, when I was a much smaller clergyman,” he said, walking forward while constantly searching the shadows, every sense on high alert. “About twelve or so years old, I occasionally had to defend myself, my dinner, and my allowance.”
“You don’t fight like a twelve-year-old,” she said flatly. “They never got near you. None of them did.”
“That had more to do with your pistol than my boxing skills.”
Ahead, the hotel doorman emerged from within, yawning. He was about to lean against the wall when he caught sight of Grant and Lady Crowmore, and straightened once more.
“Evening, Sparrow,” Grant said amiably. “Tell me…” He paused, for Lady Crowmore had definitely pinched his arm in a warning kind of a way. He could understand that. There was already enough gossip and scandal about her without adding speculation about tonight’s attack—and, no doubt, his own interference. “All quiet tonight? I could swear I saw some ruffians lurking around the high street.”
“No trouble at all, sir. A few strangers in town, but that’s normal these days.” He touched his hat and opened the door for Lady Crowmore. “Your ladyship.”
Grant passed through the door after the lady into the gracious foyer. The young man at the desk was sprawled across it, flirting with one of the maids, who fled at the sight of guests. The clerk straightened immediately.
“Your hand is bleeding,” Lady Crowmore observed, her voice unshaken, although Grant could have sworn there was a hint of distress in her eyes.
“No, no,” he assured her, “it’s from the other fellow’s face.” He held her gaze. “Is there anything I might be able to assist you with?”
Her lips curved. “Do you mean looking under my bed for assassins?”
There was a boldness in her eyes that caused his already very aware body to flame. She’d meant that, of course, though it was hardly an invitation, merely her suspicion of his own motives. It made no difference. Despite his clamoring body, he would never take advantage of a moment of weakness.
“I meant inform the magistrate of what happened. And perhaps I might send a friend to you?” he managed.
She laughed. “My dear sir, I have no friends. Nor am I so poor spirited that I need my hand held over such a trivial incident.” Unexpectedly, she extended her gloved fingers. “Give me your hand.”
He obeyed. “You will stain your gloves,” he warned.
“There, I should have worn black as all the old biddies wished.” Her fingers closed around his hand, turning it to see the damaged knuckles. Grant wished her gloves to the devil that he might feel her skin on his. And he wished his hand less unsightly, her attention less practical.
Her nostrils flared, her only sign of distaste, but although he tried to withdraw, her fingers tightened. Over her shoulder, she called to the youth at the desk. “Mr. Smith, is it? Send for my maid, if you please. Desire her to bring my medicine box to me. In here,” she added to Grant, dropping his hand at last to push open the nearest door, which appeared to be a kind of private parlor or perhaps a reception room. “Sit.”
Like the young man at the desk, Grant obeyed, although with a hint of amusement. “There is no need, you know. It’s just a graze.” He sat on the stiff, formal little sofa.
“Be still,” she commanded, taking the seat beside him, although at a decorous distance. She had, after all, left the door open. “Can you not see that my care for the injured curate is my last-ditch attempt to win Blackhaven’s approbation?”
“Then clearly it would be churlish of me to flee. I give in to your kindness—and my own inclinations to enjoy your company for a few moments longer.”
“Gallant,” she allowed. “But you won’t enjoy it. My salve stings like the devil.”
Surprised laughter broke from him, and for some reason, she looked startled. He thought her breath caught before she dragged her gaze up to the open door. “Where is that wretched girl?”
“Why did you come here?” Grant asked, curiously.
“It’s the best hotel in the town,” she replied. “In fact, I believe it’s the only one.”
“I mean, why did you come to Blackhaven?”
She sighed, bringing her attention back to him. “I know what you meant. I just didn’t want to believe you were like everyone else.”
This time it was he who was startled. And mortified. “Forgive me. My calling does not make intrusive questions less insolent.”
Again, she surprised him, a rueful smile curving her lips. “Thank God you do not yet see through all of my tricks. You are meant to crumble into abject excuses and avoid the subject.”
“Oh, I’m crumbling.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t believe you’re a crumbling man.”
He dropped his gaze to his sluggishly bleeding hand in his lap. “We all crumble at something.”
For a moment she was silent. Bored probably by the less than witty comeback. It was a raw nerve he kept hidden.
“I came for peace,” she said abruptly. “Like you, I should have known better.”
He leaned forward to see her more clearly. “Who were those men who attacked you?”
“I have no idea, and you are the one who is bleeding.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t let people shove themselves into my fists.”
She touched his wrist, butterfly-light and fleeting. “Thank you.”
God, you could drown in those eyes. Behind the warm, genuine gratitude was a maelstrom of emotion he had no hope of untangling, let alone, understanding. But he knew he wouldn’t give up trying.
The hurried click of footsteps across the foyer called him back to reality.
“At last,” Lady Crowmore stood, stripping off her gloves, and indicating with an impatient wave of one of them, that Grant should remain seated. A youngish lady’s maid entered the room, carrying a painted wooden box and closed the door behind her.
Lady Crowmore took the box from the maid and set it on the sofa beside Grant to open it. From a smaller, sealed box within, she took a small sponge and to his amazement, she knelt on the floor at his feet.
“Give me your hand,” she said once more. And again, he obeyed, watching her face as she took it, this time in her naked fingers, causing his pulse to race. Her touch was soft, sensitive, both her left hand beneath his and the gentle action of her right as she cleaned his skinned knuckles with the damp sponge.
Like a surgeon’s assistant he had once observed in a field hospital in Spain, the maid took the slightly gory sponge from her and presented her with a clean, dry cloth with which she gently yet firmly patted his hand dry. The maid then took the cloth from her mistress and presented an open jar of ointment.
“Brace yourself,” Lady Crowmore said humorously, scooping a fingerful of the cream and smearing it over his knuckles. Although it stung, he didn’t flinch. He was too preoccupied with the changing expressions flitting across her beautiful face—concentration, sympathy, a hint of memory, perhaps, good and bad, and the same touch of humor with which she seemed to say and do most things. That, at least, was no affectation.
“You have brothers,” he guessed, “whom you got used to patching up, along with servants and other family dependents.”
She released his hand, placing it calmly on his knee while she replaced the lid on the jar. “Well, even the wickedest lady is brought up to be mistress of an establishment.”
“I don’t believe you’re wicked at all.”
Her eyes flew back to his as though struck. Then her lashes dropped, and when they rose again, her eyes were warm, sultry, and inviting enough to send desire raging through him. “Would you like me to prove otherwise, Master Curate?” she asked huskily. “Or are you too afraid for your reputation?”
The maid, clearly well trained, didn’t appear to hear as she fussily tidied the box and closed the lid.
Because he couldn’t help it, Grant reached out his still tingling hand and touched the lady’s soft, warm cheek. And now surely there was a hint of fear as well as excitement sparking in those expressive eyes. He’d surprised her. Possibly, she’d expected flight. Or a straightforward, amorous lunge. His body clamored for the latter. Still kneeling at his feet, she was close enough to see her effect on him, though she was not crass enough to look directly.
“You have nothing to prove to me,” he said steadily. “On the contrary, it is I who wish to prove myself worthy of your trust. For I believe you are in trouble. I would like to help, if you would let me.”
There was an instant, tiny but definite, when she actually leaned her cheek into his hand. A sudden, somehow honest gesture that made him doubt the seductive words that had come before. That had been a game, a pretense. She’d known he would not accept. But in this moment, her cheek against his palm truly moved him.
Then her long, black lashes came down again on whatever pain or temptation lay there.
“My trouble is of my own making,” she drawled, rising to her feet. “It always has been. And I would appreciate it if you kept quiet about this incident. If the magistrate is informed, my … peace will be quite cut up.”
His hand fell back into his lap. He stood. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“Likewise,” she said outrageously.
Again, laughter snatched at his breath. He bowed. “On that understanding, I’ll bid you goodnight, Lady Crowmore.”
“Goodnight,” she said carelessly, draping herself into his vacated place on the sofa as he walked to the door and opened it. “Mr. Grant?”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said.
He smiled and flexed his stinging right hand. “Thank you.”
He thought she smiled back as he closed the door, but it might have been wishful thinking.
*
Despite her lack of welcome in Blackhaven, and despite the unpleasant events outside the hotel, Kate woke the following morning with inexplicable lightness of heart. In fact, it felt peculiarly like hope. Because there were men like Mr. Tristram Grant in the world.
However, since she had no real intention of beginning a flirtation with anyone, let alone with a respected clergyman, she banished him from her mind, and began her day with an energetic walk on the beach before breakfast. Poor Little, her maid, seemed ready to drop by the time they returned. Mercilessly, Kate dragged her to the pump room with her as soon as they’d eaten.
The pump room was where one partook of the health-giving Blackhaven spring water which had made the town so popular. Kate had never been before, but since she had to have some reason for being in the town without family or friends, she decided she should go at least once. She supposed it would be like Bath.
Certainly, she found a lot of frail and elderly people there, some of them in obvious pain, quietly drinking from elegant glasses. They bowed politely to Kate who bowed back, heartened by the civility. Only a few of the haughtier, wealthier patrons snubbed her. Most of them nodded distantly with the clear hope she wouldn’t sit with them. She didn’t.
She sat alone and drank her glass of perfectly ordinary water. A lonely old lady with gout came and sat beside her, regaling her with stories of her ailments and about how the town had changed in the last few years.
“You must find it annoying to have your pleasant little town invaded by so many strangers,” Kate offered.
“Not at all,” the old lady protested. Her eyes twinkled. “To be frank, it was a very boring little town! We didn’t even know our water was special until outsiders came and told us so. And now, there is so much more life about the place, so many more interesting and beautiful people to watch—like you, my dear.”
Kate laughed. “Thank you. Even though we clog up your streets and your church—”
“Oh, Mr. Hoag is quite in favor of the expansion.”
“And your new curate, also?” Kate asked casually.
“He must be. There are certainly more people coming to church since he began to take the services.” She cackled. “Mind you, he is a very handsome young man. Personable, too. I daresay any family, even the Winslows, would be delighted to have a daughter married to him.”
“I daresay,” Kate agreed, faintly.
“Mind you, he’s secretive,” the old lady allowed, setting down her empty glass. “No idea who his family is or where he came from.” Annoyingly, she began to heave herself up, just when Kate was eager to hear more.
Good manners compelled Kate to rise and help the old lady to her feet. And by the time she’d passed her walking stick and said goodbye, the moment for further questions had passed.
Ten minutes later, having refused with a shudder the attendant’s invitation to bathe in the pool below, Kate sallied forth again to find something else to do.
However, without friends in Blackhaven, there was very little to occupy her. She’d already visited the art gallery yesterday. It showed largely sea views, paintings of Braithwaite Castle and a few portraits of children, dogs, and horses. One or two of them were very fine, but Kate felt she could have improved on most of them herself. They certainly didn’t entice her back for another look just yet.
There was an ice parlor, like a miniature Gunther’s which she’d always enjoyed in London, and a couple of coffee houses occupied by an interesting mixture of gentlemen from all walks of life, and even by one or two females, though none of them was unaccompanied. Kate wondered if she felt strong enough to brave another taboo today and elected to leave it until she was truly bored.
Instead, she went for a walk around the town, which she didn’t really know despite having stayed at Braithwaite Castle in the spring. It proved to be a quaint, pleasant place on the whole, despite its rapid expansion which seemed to be managed with taste. And if she occasionally imagined shadows lying in wait at quiet corners, she supposed that was inevitable after last night. It didn’t mean she had to hide in her room in fear of men who had surely already fled Blackhaven.
She walked past St. Andrew’s Church, with only a faint pang of disappointment at not sighting the intriguing curate. She dawdled around the market and the harbor, where she learned from a cheerful sailor that there were to be French prisoners delivered the following day by the famous—or infamous—Captain Alban, who’d helped to capture them and was apparently doing this further favor for the Royal Navy.
She went on through respectable residential streets and glimpsed others rather less salubrious—where she guessed it would be unwise to walk wearing silk. So she followed two neatly dressed women of the lower orders up another street leading back toward High Street.
The women entered a gate on the left, which surprised Kate since a line of somewhat unsavory characters snaked out of the gate and down the street. She couldn’t resist glancing in the open gate as she passed. A small yard led to a ramshackle building with its doors wide open. A horse and cart stood to one side, the horse contentedly guzzling from a nose bag. Some kind of manufactory, she guessed. And perhaps these poor souls were looking for work here.
Kate refused to avoid them, although she was careful to carry her reticule on her outside arm. A few of the men grinned at her. One or two tipped their ragged hats. None of them addressed her or threatened her in any way. Until someone fell at her feet, blocking her path and forcing her to an abrupt halt.
Another man, who’d almost fallen with him, yelled, “Jackie!” in a mixture of despair and frustration and dropped to one knee, trying to haul him upright again. “We’re going in, Jackie, the line’s moving. Up you get, man.”
The fallen man had one wooden leg and clothes so tattered as to be hardly worthy of the name. He also reeked of alcohol, and his friend’s efforts to make him stand were doomed to failure. If he wasn’t dead drunk, he was simply dead.
“Sorry, ma’am, he don’t mean no harm,” his friend threw at her while he slapped the unconscious man ungently on the cheeks. “Fool. If you don’t wake up, you won’t eat. Jackie!”
“Ah,” Kate said, understanding at last. “You’re queuing for food?”
“Just till we get back on our feet,” the man said defensively.
“Of course,” Kate said hastily. Under the man’s astonished gaze, she knelt on the ground and took her smelling salts from her reticule. She never used them herself, but had always carried them as part of a lady’s accoutrements. She supposed they weren’t normally used for drunks of this class.
One whiff, however, had Jackie waving his hands in alarm. His friend caught them before he could touch her. “Oy, Jackie behave. The lady’s helping you. But you got to get up or you’ll get no dinner. Don’t make me leave you here.” He cast his eyes uneasily after the line which had almost disappeared through the gate now.
Jackie opened his dazed eyes, focused them on Kate and gave her an unexpected, singularly sweet smile. It provided a hint of the man he’d once been. It also gave her a glimpse of true suffering. Shame hit her in the stomach.
She patted his shoulder awkwardly.
“Bless you lady, don’t touch the varmint, he’s filthy,” objected the friend.
“There you are, Sergeant,” said another, very different voice, and Kate’s gaze flew up to find none other than Mr. Grant the curate, crouching down by the fallen man. He didn’t look at her. “Your wound playing up again?”
Jackie nodded. It warmed Kate that Grant allowed him this dignity.
Without fuss, the curate got an arm under Jackie’s waist and hauled him upright without any help. That done, he held him up with one arm, and offered his free hand to Kate.
She met his gaze and something new fizzed inside her, like a thousand tiny champagne bubbles. She took his hand and rose to her feet. Jackie’s friend had taken the opportunity to run after the others.
Kate asked bluntly, “Will he be allowed a meal in this state?”
“Of course,” Grant said, walking forward to the gate.
“Are you sure?” she insisted, trotting after them.
Jackie grinned at her. “Course he is. He’s the captain.”
“Captain of the kitchen,” Grant said deprecatingly. “We provide meals for whoever needs them, twice a week if we can.”
“Who is we?” she asked lightly.
“Volunteers from the church.”
Since they were at the door of the building, she waited to be invited inside. But he only delivered up Jackie to a much burlier looking helper and turned to face her. “Many of them are old soldiers, invalided out of our local regiment and left with nothing. Some with no means of earning.”
“It’s not just the pain of his wound that makes him drink,” Kate said in a small voice.
“No.”
“You called him Sergeant.”
“It brings him back to himself. Sometimes. Thank you for helping him. I’m afraid he has dirtied your dress.”
“I have another,” Kate said vaguely, thinking of Jackie’s missing limb which could never be replaced. She refocused to find Grant’s steady, compelling gaze on her face. Warmth seeped under her skin.
He said, “May I escort you to wherever you’re going?”
“Of course not. You are busy here, and my reputation will not stand being seen with a gentleman while wearing a dirty gown.”
“Unless the gentleman is the curate,” he suggested.
“I suspect you have a very unrealistic idea of how your congregation regards you.”
“Well, then you must hide,” he said solemnly, walking toward the waiting horse and cart. He lifted the tarpaulin invitingly.
Her lips twitched. “Are you serious?”
“It’s either that or be seen in my company.”
They were hardly the only two options open to her, but she forbore to point it out. She recognized a challenge when she heard one. He didn’t believe she’d do it. He imagined he was manipulating her into accepting his escort.
She regarded him, considering. “Do you think it will cause less talk—about either of us—if you empty me out of the cart in front of the hotel?”
“Of course not,” he said promptly. “I’ll deliver you round the back.”
“Of course you will,” she murmured. “Well, if you think you can make that beast move, by all means, do your worst.”
And she advanced on the cart, fully intending to haul herself up, unaided. At least she had the satisfaction of having finally surprised him. She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and then his breath of laughter. He moved, intercepting her before she could touch the sides of the cart.
“Surely you can’t mean to stop me after arousing all my hopes?” she mocked.
“Oh no, I merely mean to help you up.” Before she could object, if she truly meant to, he placed firm hands on her waist and lifted her easily to a sitting position on the cart with her legs dangling down.
Her breath caught. His eyes held hers, and he didn’t at once release her waist. His fingers seemed to burn through the thin fabric of her pelisse and gown.
“I’m joking you,” he confessed. “I wanted to see how far you would go.”
She drew up her legs, pulling away from him. “You’d better hurry,” she observed as she arranged herself under the tarpaulin. “I can tell you are in demand here.”
For an instant he didn’t move, then she heard his breath of laughter as he covered her up. A moment later, the cart creaked as he climbed up on the front to drive, and the horse began to amble forward.
I must be very, very bored, she thought as her shoulders began to shake with silent laughter.
His voice, sounding muffled through the tarpaulin, said, “Are you not afraid to walk alone after what happened last night?”
“No,” she said, not entirely truthfully. “I won’t be kept indoors by such ruffians.”
“I like your spirit,” he said. “And yet it terrifies me. You do know you’ve just climbed into a cart that belongs to neither of us, and are now completely at the mercy of a stranger you met less than twenty-four hours ago? A stranger who, moreover, was present when you were attacked. You, my lady, are reckless to a fault.”
“Nonsense,” she said, steadying herself with her hand as the cart bumped over something in the road. The horse clopped placidly on. “You are not a stranger. You are the curate.”
“You mean you asked someone?” There was a pleased smile rather than a scold in his voice.
She opened her mouth to deny it, with suitably wry humor, before she remembered that actually, she had. “You see? I am not so big a fool as you imagine.”
He didn’t reply. From the noises outside the tarpaulin, she imagined they were already in High Street. She could hear the clop of other horses, human voices, and wheels passing her by.
She hung on tightly as they swung around another corner, and then another. The horse slowed and eventually stopped at Grant’s gentle command. Warily, she lifted a corner of the tarpaulin, but could make out nothing. She almost jumped when it suddenly pulled back and Grant lifted her down in a rush.
There was something oddly exciting about his hold, perhaps the unexpected strength of his arms or the firm warmth of his grip. He stood very close to her, a smile of pure fun just dying in his eyes. Since her stomach showed a tendency to melt, she hastily looked around her. It was a wooden shelter of some kind, with a roof and two sides. It was empty save for herself, Grant, and the horse and cart, but she could hear distant sounds of activity, rhythmic chopping, and the clattering of pots and crockery. Voices murmured, with others shouting over the top.
“Where are we?” she murmured.
“It’s an unloading area for the kitchen. Just walk straight out of here and through the door directly opposite. No one will notice you.”
“Something tells me you speak from experience, sir. I don’t now know which of us is less sane. There was no need for any of this.”
“Tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”
Laughter surged up. “You are, without doubt, the strangest curate I ever met.”
“I don’t imagine you meet very many.”
“Trust me, you stand out among thousands,” she said dryly.
His lip quirked. “I wish that were true.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you,” he admitted. “And I wish you to like me.”
She wasn’t used to flirting outside back kitchens. That must have been why nerves seemed to dive through her stomach. But at least she managed to respond. “Oh, I like you, Mr. Grant. I thought I made that plain last night.”
“Do you like me enough to come to church on Sunday?”
“Do you want to save my soul again?” she asked flippantly.
“No, I want to see you again. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with your soul.”
She laughed, pulling away at last. “But then, we’re strangers, and you haven’t known me a day. Goodbye, Mr. Grant.” And as directed, she walked out of the covered area and straight through the kitchen door.