The Hired Hero Page 3

  She had to keep going.

  Daylight began to tint the horizon. Caroline was out of the trees and had passed through a number of fields overgrown with weeds and wild blackberry bushes. Now she found herself on some sort of path. Birds began chirping as the light became stronger. A fox darted out in front of her, returning to its den from a nocturnal hunting foray. Startled, she stopped dead in her tracks, then chided herself for being so skittish. Just a little farther, she promised herself, but somehow her feet would not seem to obey her commands any longer. Swaying slightly, she crumpled to the ground.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Davenport winced as the light struck his face. He turned his face to escape the piercing rays, and groaned at the dull throbbing at his temples. Then it occurred to him that the sun never came into his bedchamber in such a manner. One eye reluctantly pried open. It took in the carved fireplace, now cold with grey ashes, the oak bookcases....

  That explained it. He had never made it to his bed last night. He grimaced as he struggling into a sitting position. The couch had been deucedly uncomfortable on his back, but that part of his anatomy didn’t ache nearly as much as his head. He spied two empty bottles on the rug and a third one, nearly gone, on the table next to the stump of a candle. He swung his feet to the carpet. Good lord, he hadn’t even removed his muddy boots.

  Raking his hands through his tangled hair, he glance at the tall case clock on the mantle. It was barely five thirty in the morning. Sykes was to arrive at nine. He brushed the palm of his hand over the rough stubble on his chin—he must look as terrible as he felt! A breath of fresh air would no doubt help to clear his head. There would be plenty of time for a bath and a shave.

  He rose, a trifle unsteady, and pulled on his coat. At least he had thought to remove that garment and it looked marginally better than the rest of him. No matter. There would be not a soul abroad to take in his shocking state of dishevelment at this hour, not along the path he intended to ride.

  The wind did indeed feel good against his face, though his horse’s spirited gallop caused his queasy stomach a lurch or two. He eased the big stallion into an easy walk, though the animal tossed his head in disgust at being denied his usual distance.

  “Easy, Nero,” he said, patting the glistening neck. “I promise to give you your head later today.”

  The horse snorted in reply, then suddenly shied to one side.

  Davenport let out an oath as his stomach gave an unpleasant heave. “Behave yourself,” he grumbled, tightening the reins.

  The horse pranced back, and suddenly Davenport could see what was making him behave so skittishly.

  “Good God,” he exclaimed as he quickly dismounted and knelt by the body lying in the middle of the muddy path. He gently turned the person over and placed a finger on the side of the neck. There was a pulse, so she—it was a female, he noted—was alive, but she looked in far worse shape than he did.

  Caroline gave a low moan and her eyes fluttered open. Not six inches from her face was another face, a man’s face. The eyes were bloodshot, a black stubble bristled on his jaw, and raven hair fell wildly towards the shoulders of a worn coat. The odor of brandy was quite apparent.

  She gave a yelp and let fly with her good hand.

  “Ouch!”

  Davenport fell back on his rump, nursing a tender nose. A trickle of blood started from one nostril. He fished out a rumpled handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to the injured appendage.

  “Who the hell taught you to throw a punch like that,” he demanded in a muffled voice as he righted himself but stayed out of arm’s reach.

  There was no answer.

  “If you are bamming me and mean to plant me another facer, I’ll not be pleased,” he warned as he inched closer. “I’m merely trying to be a gentleman and offer some assistance.”

  Her eyes were closed and she didn’t move.

  Davenport took in the darkening bruises, the scratches and the nasty cut on her forehead and his lips tightened. “I wonder what brute it is you are trying to flee,” he muttered as he gathered her in his arms and remounted his horse.

  The day, which had started badly enough, seemed to be getting much worse.

  * * * *

  “There it be, down there. See?”

  The elegantly dressed gentleman craned his neck to peer down into the ravine.

  “Ain’t nubbody gonna walk away from that,” piped up the third man as he shifted his weight nervously from side to side.

  The gentleman said nothing. He stepped off the ledge and picked his way a short distance down the overgrown slope, stopping to steadily himself against a scraggly birch tree.

  “Ain’t nubbody gonna notice them down there neither, leastways not for months.” The man who had spoken first wet his lips. “Yer gonna give the rest of the blunt now, ain’t ye? They’re dead, and that’s what ye said ye wanted.”

  The gentleman scrambled back up to the road. He reached into his voluminous cape and withdrew a heavy leather pouch, which he tossed at the feet of the two other men. They fell to their knees in their eagerness to retrieve it, nearly knocking heads. But their hands froze as two quick shots rang out. Slowly, each pitched forward into the mud.

  “You are right—no one will see the bodies for months,” he repeated softly as he tucked two long barreled pistols back into his pockets.

  Removing his cape, he dragged each body over the edge of the ravine and sent them tumbling down into the underbrush. Satisfied that nothing suspicious was visible from the road, he brushed some smudges of mud from his clothes with a grimace of distaste and retrieved his outer garment. He knew a nearby ostler who would be happy to handle the sale of two horses, no questions asked. Then he could return and take a closer look down in the ravine. The girl may be dead, as the two highwaymen claimed, but they had badly bungled the job.

  The dispatch.

  He had risked too much to see it slip out of his grasp. He would have it, no matter what.

  * * * *

  This time, when Caroline opened her eyes, the face she saw was not nearly so disreputable looking. The eyes were not bloodshot at all, but a clear hazel, narrowed with concern. A full beard, flecked liberally with grey, obscured the other features, save for a long, hooked nose.

  “She is awake.” The face turned to speak to someone else in the room.

  Caroline vaguely recalled being taught by her governess how many bones were in the human body. It was quite a number, and every single one of hers seemed to hurt abominably. At least, she noted, she was no longer lying on hard ground but in a blessedly soft bed, with a eiderdown coverlet pulled up over her. Then, as she became more fully conscious, the memories of the past few days came flooding back.

  “My clothes!” She tried to raise her head, but fell back with a gasp.

  “Easy now, miss.” The face had turned back to her. “Don’t try to move. You’ve taken a nasty blow to the head.”

  She tried to sit up again but the doctor gently held her shoulder down.

  “There is no need to be alarmed, miss. Your dress and, er, other garments are right here. Mrs. Collins has placed them over a chair to dry.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I am Dr. Laskins...”

  Another voice cut off the doctor. “The more appropriate question is who are you?”

  Caroline couldn’t see the speaker. She ignored the question. “How did I get here? The last thing I remember is being accosted by some ruffian. I fought him off...”

  There was a low chuckle. “Indeed, Laskins is treating two patients this morning. His verdict is that I shall survive. Your condition is causing him a bit more concern.”

  The eyes were no longer bloodshot, which only emphasized the startling depth of their sapphire color. The cheeks were freshly shaven, revealing a lean, strong jaw and chin whose squareness was broken only by a slight cleft in the middle. The chiseled lips were curved in a hint of a smile. Though not nearly as close
as the last time, it was indeed the same face—Caroline recognized the small hairline scar running along the cheekbone, the only subtle flaw in an otherwise dashingly handsome visage.

  “I’m Davenport. Let me inquire once again— who are you?”

  Caroline closed her eyes. She resolved to say nothing until she had time to think more clearly.

  “My lord, the young lady has suffered a severe blow to the head. Let us not tax her until she feels strong enough to speak. The important thing is for her to rest. The laudanum will soon be taking effect and that should dull the pain she must be in.”

  Caroline did feel a pleasant wooziness creeping over her. Stay mum, she urged herself. But she couldn’t help it One eye flicked open, taking in the gentleman’s rough flaxen shirt and worn jacket. “A lord,” she mumbled. “You must be joking. Looks more like a...a farmhand.”

  Davenport gave a short laugh. “You have the right of it there, my mysterious stranger. I’m naught but a farmer. Which reminds me, I have a meeting with my steward. So, as you advise, Laskins, we will postpone any further questions until later.

  Dr. Laskins closed his portmanteau. “I shall return this afternoon. She should be more alert by then.”

  Caroline certainly hoped so. She needed all her wits about her to decide what to do next.

  * * * *

  The Duke of Cheviot paced up and down beside the command tent, heedless of the thick mud that was starting to work its way up his tall Hessians. In the distance, the dull thuds of cannon fire reverberated in the hills. A military aide rushed out of the tent, quickly mounted a big chestnut stallion. and urged the animal into a full gallop. He was followed by an older gentleman whose bearing as well as his uniform marked him as the one in command.

  “General...” began the duke.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, Your group must move out with us. The lines to the north have been cut off.”

  “But I must be in London! It is of the utmost urgency, I assure you”

  The general shook his head. “Not possible. We must move immediately.”

  “Perhaps with an escort? The lives of many of our men may depend on it.”

  The general frowned. “I tell you, it’s too risky. I do not know your exact mission, Your Grace, but I do know that Whitehall depends on me to see to your life. Besides, there are no men to spare. Perhaps in a few days, if we are lucky.”

  The duke clenched his hands. “At least may I send a letter through?”

  The general gazed into the distance, his eyes riveted on the thin red lines moving through a ruined cornfield. “Nothing but military dispatches,” he snapped. “Can’t you see what is happening here? Gather the others and be ready to move in ten minutes.”

  It was quite clear which rank took precedence on the battlefield

  * * * *

  Davenport rubbed his temples. Good lord, it was a lot of money, but he could manage it, just barely. He smiled in grim humor at the last remark of the young lady upstairs—there would be no new wardrobe from Weston or boots from Hoby, that was for sure. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of venturing to Town any time soon. He had meant what he had said about being a farmer. It was time someone of his lineage set the estate to right.

  With that in mind, he closed the ledger book and reached for his jacket. The feel of the coarse wool made him smile again. He did have clothes befitting a gentleman, but these garments were more practical, given that he intended to work alongside his tenants As well as keeping his mind occupied, it would show them the new earl was not at all like his older brother, no matter what it appeared.

  But it was a sharp observation the stranger had made. Davenport’s brow furrowed as he walked to the stable. Who was she, and how had she received such cuts and bruises? He could swear he had seen a look of wariness cross her face for an instant when he had asked her who she was. In fact, he was sure she had deliberately avoided answering his question. His lips compressed. He had seen similar injuries on the face of a lady. It sickened him, but he told himself in this case, it was none of his business. He planned to get her back to whoever was responsible for her as soon as possible. Another helpless female was the last sort of distraction he needed in his life.

  Sykes was waiting for him, holding the reins of the big black stallion who was tossing his head even more impatiently than earlier in the morning. Davenport patted the muscular neck.

  “You shall have your run before the day is out, Nero,” he promised as he swung into the saddle. But he kept the horse in tight check as the two men headed out to the fields. There was still much to discuss concerning work to be done.

  They approached an expanse of fallow land. A group of men, stripped to the waist and already covered with a film of dust, were toiling to clear the overgrown weeds from the soil.

  “I went ahead and purchased seed. There is still time to get a crop in if we hurry,” said Sykes.

  The men looked up as the two riders slowed their pace. Some nodded a curt greeting to the steward while most simply stood and regarded the earl with suspicion.

  “You have your work cut out for you, milord,” observed Sykes in a low voice as they dismounted.

  Davenport nodded grimly and began to remove his shirt.

  * * * *

  The horse’s flanks were lathered with sweat. Even though he was bone tired, Davenport had enjoyed the hard gallop back to the manor house. The cool breeze felt good on his parched skin and blew some of the dust from his hair. It was brutally hard work, but so far he had not disgraced himself. He stripped to no disadvantage with his broad shoulders and lithe build. And though the surreptitious glances cast his way throughout the day seemed to expect—nay, wish for— his collapse, he had accomplished as much as any man there. They may not like him yet, he thought with satisfaction, but they were a fair way along to respecting him. That was what Sykes had told him—that he would have to earn their trust.

  That was fair enough, as long as they gave him a fighting chance.

  The doctor’s gig stood by the stable as he rode in. Davenport swore under his breath. He had forgotten all about his mysterious visitor. Tossing the reins to the grizzled groom who shuffled out from the stalls, he strode quickly to the main house and barely gave Owens a chance to yank the door open for him. He was about to continue up the staircase when he paused for a moment and asked the butler for hot water to be brought up to his chamber. For some reason, he found himself wanting to wash the worst of the dirt from his person and put on a clean shirt before he looked in on the girl. A mere farmer was fine, but he balked at appearing a complete yokel, especially after the rather unfortunate first impression he had made.

  The door to the room was slightly ajar. Dr. Hasting was already finishing a cursory examination. The young lady’s face, its pallor emphasized by the white bandage around her forehead, showed some deep scratches across the cheeks and bruises near the eyes than were already mottling into an ugly purplish hue. Despite the injuries, it was an intriguing face. He had already noted the emerald eyes, now closed in repose. The nose was classically straight though perhaps a bit too long. High cheekbones stood out as a dominant feature while the mouth, rather wider than was thought pretty in a lady, was full and firm, even now set in a look of determination. An unusual face, oddly attractive. Masses of honey-colored hair tumbled around it, spreading out over the pillow. The earl found himself wondering if it felt as silky as it looked....

  He turned his gaze quickly to Laskins. “How is your patient this evening?”

  The doctor regarded him over lowered spectacles. “She seems to be resting comfortably, a good sign. I am loath to disturb her sleep, so I shall leave a draught of laudanum and ask Mrs. Collins to look in occasionally during the night.” He looked down at Caroline’s sleeping form. “As I told you earlier, my examination revealed no broken bones, but the shoulder—the joint must be set back in place.”

  Davenport frowned.

  “Aye, it will be quite painful, but there’s no getting around i
t. I shall wait until she seems a little stronger.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to do it now, when she is unconscious?”

  Dr. Laskins shook his head. “I dare not risk it. The shock to the system might be too great.

  Davenport’s frown deepened. “Any idea who she is?”

  The doctor shook his head again. “I have made a few discreet inquiries, but no talk of a missing girl from this area. I wonder...” he let his voice trail off. “It is clear she is gently bred, for her hands show little sign of manual work. Whoever she is, she has had a rough time of it lately.”

  “Has she been beaten?”

  “It is hard to tell. There are bruises on her body, but it is impossible to tell for sure what caused them. If it is a father or a husband, he is a brute.”

  The earl’s teeth set on edge as he remembered how Helen had looked once when he had arrived on an unexpected visit.

  “I shall return in the morning,” continued the other man. “I don’t expect there to be any problems during the night, but if she wakes, Mrs. Collins should try to get her to take some nourishment.

  Davenport walked the doctor to the door and, with one last glance at the sleeping patient, shut it softly.

  Caroline waited a few minutes to make sure they were truly gone, then slowly opened her eyes. Her head and shoulder ached like the devil, but the laudanum had dulled some of the pain and the sleep had at least allowed her to marshal her thoughts. She looked around. It was a pleasant room, plain but light and airy. From a window to her left, the sun cast its sinking rays onto the oak floor, warming it to a soft, honeyed color. The simple bed was more than comfortable and as she settled herself deeper into its thick softness she decided that, for the moment, she seemed safe enough.

  But for how long?

  She had seen her host’s expression this morning. He would not be put off much longer before his questions began again. And despite his rough appearance and shabby dress, he did not appear to be a slowtop. No, there was a depth to those sapphire eyes that warned her he would not be fooled by any shallow Banbury tale.