The dusty coachman jerked on the reins, his whip flurrying in the air, as if he weren’t quite certain what to do with himself. “What the deuce, fellow!” When the horses halted, he ripped off his continental hat and cursed. “Get out of the bloomin’ way ’fore I run the both of you down. I’ve a schedule to keep, I ’ave, and there be no time for dallying.”
“We’ve no time for it either, good man. How about a ride?”
“Not a chance. Full of passengers already, we be. Now get a move on—”
“Up top then. And think not that we shan’t pay either. There’s fifty pence for you if you let us on. Besides that, is it not your Christian duty to aid a young man and his bride who have met with mishap on their honeymoon?”
Eliza’s jaw slackened as his arm fell around her shoulder.
The coachman uttered another oath. “Bloody fools. On with you then—and mind you don’t be losin’ the mail.”
No sooner had they climbed to the top of the luggage and mail than did the coach lurch back into motion, dust rising in their wake.
“You did well, Miss Gillingham.” With his hand clinging to hers, as if in fear she might fall, her kidnapper’s lips spread with a grin. “And I’m certain you can forgive the small lie. Matters of romance seem to soften even the most disagreeable of sorts.”
“It was terrible to say.” Her whisper was almost lost in the roar of the wind and wheels. “And what you said of Captain—”
“I meant every word of it.” The grin was gone. His grip now intense. “I am taking you to Monbury Manor and will do most anything to ensure that happens. Whether you want to go or not matters little to me. Your captain means even less. Is that clear?”
Tears climbed her throat.
When she didn’t answer, he took his gaze elsewhere, his brows lowered, as if as much fear and burden were weighing down his own thoughts. What was he talking about? What was happening—orhadhappened?
And in the name of heaven, what did it have to do with her?
Poortsmoor was the sort of place Felton had visited once and counted as too many times. The timber-framed buildings were sooty and sagging. The air carried pungent smells of dead fish and brine. Even the villagers, as they moped about the street in approaching dusk, seemed haggard and woebegone.
But Eliza Gillingham stared as if they had just entered Grosvenor Square. Her gaze roamed from one side of the street to the other. Then up. Then down. Then back and forth again, as if she’d never seen such a place in her life. Had she really never been out of those woods?
“To the apothecary first.” He took her elbow. “Then we shall find lodgings and something to eat.” If she didn’t take the food he offered this time, he’d force it down her throat himself. Last thing he needed was the girl fainting of her stubborn hunger.
He could be just as stubborn, though.
She’d eat.
From the middle rungs of a ladder, a scruffy lamplighter doffed his hat. “Jolly evenin’ to ye, me lady.” Slurred. “Won’t ye be so kind as to blow a poor lonesome chap a kiss?”
Her only answer was to draw closer to Felton’s side as they continued past the oil streetlamp.
“Well, a pox on you then, woman. Just because ye got a neck-or-nothing young blood of the Fancy walkin’ the street with you don’t mean ye can’t speak to those of yer own station.”
Felton backtracked until he stood beneath the lamplighter. With his eyes meeting the man’s glassy ones, he seized the ladder. “I’ve smashed in more faces than you’ve lit lamps, sir, and would have no qualms in drawing the cork of a drunk man.” To add realism to his threat, he jerked the ladder until the man wobbled and cursed. “Now if you’ve a mind to say more, climb down and do so man-to-man, eh?”
Blubbering, the fellow clambered higher up his ladder and, with shaky hands, resumed lighting the oil lamp.
Any other day, Felton would have hauled him down and forced fisticuffs. He’d done more for less, after all, in his own village. How many times had he left Lodnouth with bloody knuckles or a leaking nose?
“Disgraceful.” His mother always looked at him the same way, with sad eyes and sallow cheeks pulled in a frown. “Disgraceful, my son, that you should go to the village and deign yourself to fisticuffs with mere servants and fishermen.”
In younger years, he’d defended himself. He’d explained all the things they’d said against his family. The insults. Insinuations. The filthy rumors that clung to his name and suffocated any pride he might have had. What did it matter, at this point, if he did disgrace himself?
It was not as if any of the society circles still cared for them. Invitations for balls or tea or dinner parties had long since stopped coming exactly fourteen years ago. Even Miss Haverfield, the squire’s daughter, was not permitted to taint her reputation and court a despicable Northwood son.
But maybe all that was about to end.
Felton took Eliza’s arm again and found the tiny brick apothecary shop. The paunchy old gentleman made quick time in washing Felton’s hand, applying leaves of cleavers, and wrapping the wound in a clean bandage. He also thumbed over Eliza’s ankle with the advice it should not be walked on heavily over the next couple of days. He’d have probably frowned to know the distance she’d walked already.
When they left the apothecary shop, they headed straight for a two-story stone building with ivy twisting around each window and dangling over the arched doorway. The windows were smudged, but a warm glow of candles brightened their panes.
