Winter Fire - Malloran 06 Read online

  He watched in eerie stillness, dark eyes steady, but when she reached the bottom, he moved into a bow worthy of court. “Ma’am!”

  The sweep of his hand from chest to elegant extension caught her eye, or perhaps it was flashing emerald flame. She fixed on that. Mr. Dash was clearly a wealthy man and it was shameful that his child and nurse be abandoned to strangers.

  Genova gave him a moderate, chilly curtsy. “I was in the party that assisted your wife, Mr. Dash, and I can give you a full account. If your wife’s coach has been pulled out of the ditch, I can’t imagine why she’s not here, but please don’t distress yourself about your child. We have little Charles and his wet nurse safe in our rooms.”

  “Charles?” he said, in a strange tone. His eyes might have widened, but lids shielded them too quickly for her to be sure. “She brought the precious darling with her?”

  Perhaps he was a better father than Genova had hoped. “Unwise in this weather,” she agreed, “but the infant seems healthy.”

  “Then take me to him, Miss… ?”

  “Smith,” Genova said.

  She led the way upstairs, wishing, not for the first time, that she had a more interesting name. In the presence of this hawk of fine plumage, Miss Smith made her feel like a house sparrow, which she most certainly was not. She hoped he was noticing that her figure was excellent and her hair thick and blond, even if straggling somewhat from its pins.

  She felt a ridiculous temptation to tell him that she’d fought Barbary pirates, and won. She couldn’t remember a man ever putting her so on edge, and she’d met many interesting ones.

  She led him into the parlor to find the maid and the baby both still asleep. Because she’d been away from the room, the smell of soiled baby and grubby nurse hit her nose afresh, but that, of course, was the Dashes’ fault, not hers.

  Mr. Dash strolled forward, remarkably quietly for a man in boots and spurs, to look down at the infant. “Dear, sweet Charles. You said he’s well?”

  Genova joined him. “As best I can tell, sir. The maid speaks no English.”

  His brows rose. “What, then, does she speak?”

  “Irish Gaelic, I gather. You are not Irish, sir?”

  “No, but Mrs. Dash is.” He contemplated the sleeping baby, making no move to pick him up. That was hardly surprising. Many men thought babies none of their business. Genova just wished she didn’t feel that she should protest if he did.

  “She has a terrible time keeping servants and must often take what she can get. She also has a terrible sense of direction. She’s doubtless set off back east. I’d better ride after her.”

  He walked toward the door.

  After a startled moment, Genova realized he was leaving. She rushed past and put herself in his way. “Surely her coachman would know better?”

  “He drinks, which is doubtless how he came to leave the road.”

  “Then I’m surprised you haven’t dismissed him.”

  “He’s her coachman, not mine. Mrs. Dash, as you doubtless noticed, is accustomed to having her own way.” Those heavy-lidded eyes held hers. “So, I might mention, am I.”

  His expression could be described as tranquil, but Genova’s every instinct screamed to get out of his way.

  He made no aggressive move, but his intent beat against her. She knew this ability men had to give off danger, but it had never been directed at her so forcibly before. She was astonished by how hard it was not to slide away and be safe.

  She stiffened her spine. “You must make arrangements for the child before you leave, sir.”

  “Must?” The word seemed to astonish him. “The arrangements seem satisfactory. I will, of course, pay you to continue your hospitality for a few more hours.”

  “I do not want pay!”

  He inclined his head. “Then I thank you for your charity.” He took a small, significant step closer. “Are we going to fight for the right of way?”

  She made herself hold her ground. “Why should you wish to?”

  “An inveterate requirement that I have my own way.”

  “Your marriage must be interesting, then.”

  “A bloody battlefield—which does give me useful skills.” He put fingers on her shoulder and traced a line toward her neck. Even through the cloth of her winter gown, the invasion sent shivers through her.

  “Sir!” She seized his wrist, but he broke her hold with ease and cradled her neck. Not tightly, but her throat constricted and she felt she could hardly breathe. Even so, she would not move away from the door. She would not. He could hardly throttle her, here in a public inn.

  “Remove your hand, sir, or I will scream.”

  He pushed her back against the door, captured her head in both hands, and kissed her.

  Genova had never been assaulted with a kiss before, and shock held her captive for a moment as his mouth sealed hers. When he pressed closer, pressed his body against her, she came to her wits and gripped his wrists to pull his hands away.

  Hopeless.

  She kicked at him, but her skirts and his boots made the effort pathetic. She couldn’t twist her head, and when she tried to scream, his tongue invaded. Oh, for a knife or a pistol!

  Then something had an effect. He freed her lips, eased the pressure of his body…

  She pushed him away with all her strength and scrambled out of reach, gathering breath to cry for help if he came near her again.

  With an ironic, victorious bow he opened the door and escaped.

  “Perish it!” She ran after, but the damnable man must have slipped the key from this side and locked the door on the other. It took only moments to run through the bedroom and leave by that door, but by that time he was down the stairs. She arrived at the landing to hear the door slam, and reached the hall at the same time as the bewildered innkeeper.

  “He’s left his cloak and things! He’ll freeze.”

  “Not him,” said Genova grimly. “The devil looks after his own.”

  Chapter Three

  The Marquess of Ashart left the inn and flinched in the blast of cold air. Damn the harridan who’d forced this on him, but he wasn’t being stuck with that child.

  He raced around to the stable where he’d left the horses and his groom, Bullen. A door showed light around it. He opened it and entered blessed warmth heavy with the tang of burning wood, tobacco, and spiced ale. Five men sat at a rough table, smoking pipes and drinking, and Bullen was one of them. They all rose. This must be a kind of grooms’ parlor—a place for them to take their ease between service.

  Ash addressed Bullen. “Get the horses. We’re leaving.”

  The middle-aged man didn’t move. “Your cloak, sir? You won’t want to travel without it.”

  Ash didn’t, but wasn’t going back for it.

  “No matter. Let’s be off.”

  “By your leave, sir,” Bullen said in a tone of patient martyrdom, “you may wish to know that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are staying at this establishment.”

  “The great-aunts? In December? You must be mistaken.”

  “No mistake, sir,” said one of the other men, his age and dignity suggesting that he was in charge of the stables. “An unplanned stop, sir, possibly because of the cold. And begging your pardon, sir, but your man’s right. You’ll court death if you ride off into this night in your jacket.”

  Plague take it, the men were right, and there was the mystery of his great-aunts. If they truly were here, he’d better find out why. Great-aunt Calliope in particular had no business traveling in this weather.

  It was also occurring to him that the intriguing Miss Smith might have information he wanted. She was clearly part of Molly Carew’s schemes.

  He addressed the head of the stables. “Do you know the Trayce ladies’ destination?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How many people do they have with them?”

  “Three coachmen and grooms, sir, and four outriders, as well as a bunch of maids and footmen. Quite a turn up her
e, for we’re not an inn that normally serves the nobility, though I hope we can do our part.”

  It was said with pride, so Ashart said, “I’m sure you can.”

  “By your leave, sir,” said Bullen, with rather heavy-handed patience, “you might remember that the ladies requested your assistance with a journey, and you ordered your coach and servants be put at their disposal?”

  “I might,” said Ash with an edge, but recollection was stirring. A letter from the great-aunts, which he’d tossed to his secretary to deal with. He’d assumed a short trip, however, and here they were days from Tunbridge Wells in blood-freezing weather, their travel arrangements obviously in chaos. If this was due to mismanagement by his people, heads would roll.

  “We stay the night here,” Ash said. “We may have to escort them on tomorrow.” He turned to the head groom. “What do you make of tomorrow’s weather?”

  “Milder than today, sir, but that’s not saying much. I hope your relatives don’t have far to go.”

  “So do I. Perhaps they’ve gone batty. Could be said to run in the family.”

  The grooms shared an uneasy look.

  “Don’t worry,” Ash said. “It only strikes at the full moon.”

  “It is the full moon, sir,” the head groom said, but he was clearly too sensible to take nonsense seriously.

  “That probably explains everything.” Ash looked at the disapproving Bullen. “Where’s Fitz?”

  “Said he’d wait in the tap, sir.”

  Ash tossed a coin on the table and thanked the men, then headed back out into the cold. Gads, but it was perishing out.

  A lit door at the back of the inn beckoned. He headed for it and found it opened straight into the tap room, another place fogged with smoke and smelling of ale. It was warm, however, which was a blessing.

  Most of those drinking looked like local men, but Ash spotted his friend Octavius Fitzroger alone at a table across the room, a flagon and a plate in front of him. Trust Fitz to get right to the serious business of food and drink.

  Ash was aware of silence and of people watching him as he crossed the room. They would be recognizing that he was a stranger, not just to the inn, but to their lives. He realized he was still wearing jewels, which he wouldn’t normally do in circumstances like this. He’d put them on only before arrival, hoping to remind Molly whom she dealt with.

  Too late to correct that now, and he couldn’t pass himself off as an ordinary man if he tried. Being a marquess from the age of eight left its marks.

  The locals settled back to their talk and drink as Ash slid onto the bench opposite Fitz.

  “Well?” Fitz asked. He was tall, blond, and slender, but it was the slenderness of a rapier. Though only two years older than Ash, Fitz had been an adventurer and a soldier and matched Ash’s temperament well. A recent friendship had rapidly become close.

  “Not well. Molly’s not here.”

  “That sounds excellent to me.”

  “I need to deal with her. This can’t go on. Apparently her coach went into a ditch a few miles east of here, but some other travelers came across her and took up her baby and nurse.”

  Fitz straightened. “The baby’s here?”

  “Guarded by an adventuress by the unlikely name of Miss Smith, who did her best to stick me with it. I was planning to leave, but now I find the great-aunts are here.”

  Fitz stared at him. “The Tunbridge Wells great-aunts? What have you been drinking?”

  “Unless the whole staff of grooms is lunatic, it’s true.”

  A blowsy barmaid sauntered over, prepared to fetch Ash a drink. He shook his head. “I do remember providing the traveling chariot and some servants, but I assumed a short trip. I need to take care of them, and I want to discover what this Miss Smith knows. I’m quite looking forward to that.”

  “Poor woman.”

  “She’ll deserve everything she gets.”

  Fitz drank from his tankard. “What’s Molly up to now? How can abandoning her baby here help her cause? Does she think to touch your tender heart?”

  Ash swore at him, but without heat. “I intend to find out. Perhaps she heard about the king’s decree.”

  “That you marry a suitable woman before appearing at court again? He didn’t specify whom.”

  “Thank Jupiter. It would be like Molly to seize on that, though, with reason. Since she’s the cause for royal disapproval, any other bride will only cause a slight thaw.”

  “If the king had wanted you to marry her, he’d have said so.”

  “He doesn’t approve of her, but he approves of my supposed callousness less.” Ash muttered something treasonous.

  “Never mind,” said Fitz. “Miss Myddleton awaits.”

  When Ash swore again, Fitz added, “She’s clever, of tolerable looks, and extremely rich. Other men would snap up such a prize.”

  “I don’t like having my hand forced.”

  “The Dowager Lady Ashart can be forgiven for pushing you toward an heiress.”

  “Desist. Yes, I’ll doubtless marry the chit, but at the moment, I need to sort out Molly. That’s the only way to truly vindicate myself. Rothgar has to be behind this. It’s too devious for Molly alone.”

  Fitz tilted his chair back against the wall. “If your cousin is behind this peculiar incident, perhaps you should let me take care of it.”

  Ash looked at Fitz. He hadn’t told him about a recent development. “I might have something to force Rothgar to reveal the truth.”

  Fitz whistled. “Watch your back. What?”

  Ash found that he didn’t want to tell even Fitz yet. The incriminating papers felt like a smoldering keg of gunpowder. “Safer for you not to know. I only mentioned it so you would cease fretting. I have the whip hand now.”

  Fitz straightened his chair with a thump. “Over Rothgar! Ash, this enmity has to end before it wrecks the Trayces and the Mallorens both.”

  Ash looked away, scanning the room full of people with simple problems. “Ending it would be pleasant,” he said, then looked back at Fitz. “But when two swordsmen stand with points at each other’s throat, who lowers his blade first?”

  “That demands an impartial intermediary.”

  Ash laughed. “Whom Rothgar and I would both trust? Enough of this,” he said, returning to practicalities. “Someone must pursue Molly, and I have to escort the great-aunts.”

  He saw the sudden tension of resistance. “For Zeus’s sake! It’s as if you fear to let me out of your sight. You’re neither my guardian angel nor my conscience.”

  “Perhaps I simply enjoy your company,” Fitz said in his usual light manner. “Life with you is certainly never dull.”

  “Life chasing Molly Carew won’t be dull either.” Ash wondered if he’d imagined that expression, but he didn’t think so. That sort of thing had happened before. Perhaps Fitz really did see himself as his guardian against folly and sin.

  Perhaps, Ash thought, he needed one. Fitz had been part of the shift in his life over the past six months or so.

  He rose and clapped his friend on the arm. “I don’t suppose she’s gone far, but if you don’t find her soon, don’t persist. Rack up for the night somewhere. Molly’s not worth your death of cold.”

  “I’m not one of the pampered great.” Fitz drained his flagon and stood, picking up his cloak and gloves. “If she eludes me, I’ll catch up with you.”

  “We’d probably miss each other on the road. Go on to Garretson’s and I’ll join you there. I go no farther tomorrow than my cousin’s door.”

  “I’ll return to the London house.”

  Ash remembered that Fitz had no high opinion of Nigel Garretson, who was hosting a bachelor Christmas party near Kent. Strangely, he had no great enthusiasm for the gathering himself.

  “What do I do if I find Molly?” Fitz asked.

  “Drag her to London by the hair and keep her there. Good hunting!”

  Ash watched Fitz leave, then asked the barmaid the way to the entrance
hall of the inn. It was reached by a narrow corridor that ended with a door. He opened it, then stepped back.

  People were arriving. He had no desire to be recognized and have to play social games. When he glimpsed the Brokesbys, he congratulated himself. They were casual acquaintances he’d made through Molly, but just the sort to presume upon it.

  Then questions stirred. Were they, too, here as part of Molly’s plan? Of Rothgar’s plan?

  Perhaps he should have taken Fitz’s advice. He was feeling ensnared—an unpleasantly familiar sensation since the night last January when he’d left a masquerade with Lady Booth Carew, widow. In April she’d claimed to be carrying his child. When he’d denied it, she’d wailed all over London about his promises and cruel abandonment.

  When that hadn’t moved him, she’d fled to Ireland, but kept up the barrage from there in letters to friends at court. Letters full of revolting details about swellings and aches.

  Ash had expected the absurdity to die, but it had become an issue with the king. How clever of Rothgar to use King George’s desire for propriety to strike such a blow. Of course, Rothgar, plague take him, had the king’s ear.

  The Brokesbys were going upstairs with a maid now, leaving the innkeeper alone. Great-aunts first. Ash walked into the hall.

  “Mr. Dash!” the innkeeper said, professional smile appearing. “You’ll be back for your cape, then, sir.”

  “No, I’m back for my great-aunts. I discovered that Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce are here. Since they seem to be cast up by the storm, I feel I should succor them.”

  The smile wavered. “But it isn’t storming, sir.”

  Ash reined in a temptation to do the man violence. “A figure of speech only. If you could direct me to their rooms? And I will stay the night.”

  The smile disappeared entirely. “Sir! I am distraught, but I have just given my last rooms to that couple. A brother and sister, you see.”

  “No room at the inn? How seasonally appropriate, but there is always one to be found.” Ash took a guinea out of his pocket.

  “Truly, sir. I have given up my own bedchamber to the lady—”