“Quite sure.” The lord’s voice indicated dismissal, and whatever coin changed hands ensured immediate compliance.
“Good e’en to your lordship.”
With excruciating slowness, the groom shambled away. It seemed to take forever before his lordship appeared at the stall’s entrance. He raised the lantern to reveal her trembling form against the back wall.
“He’s gone.”
“Thank heaven.” In a relieved gasp, Charis released the breath she’d held for what felt like an hour. She didn’t know why the man had helped conceal her. All that mattered right now was that he had.
He surveyed her with a troubled expression on his striking features. “You can’t stay here. The inn is crawling with people. You’ve been lucky to stay undisturbed this long. At least come out where I can see you.”
“I don’t…” she started uncertainly. Although the man made no attempt to drag her out, she pressed against the boards. The movement cramped her aching muscles with fresh pain.
The man stepped away to indicate he presented no danger. At last she saw her way clear to take to her heels.
She hesitated.
She bit her lower lip, then wished she hadn’t when the torn flesh stung. The stranger was right. What chance her making it past the inn yard? This close to home, someone would surely recognize her.
As if he read her thoughts, the watchfulness faded from his eyes. “My name is Gideon.”
Even as Charis limped past Khan into the aisle, she remained poised for flight if the man—Gideon—made a move. But his stance was relaxed, and he left her space. She sucked in a shuddering breath that tested her bruised ribs. With every second he didn’t touch her, she felt safer.
“You’re hurt.” He sounded tranquil, but anger sparked his eyes to black fire as one comprehensive glance swept her from head to toe.
She could imagine what a disreputable slattern she looked. Humiliated heat crawled up her neck, and she lifted her right hand to clutch her ragged bodice. Her stepbrother Hubert had ripped it when he’d held her down. Now the neckline gaped to reveal the lacy edge of her shift.
Her face felt as though a thousand wasps stung it. Her blue dress was torn and filthy and pitifully inadequate on this arctic night. Under capped sleeves, scratches and bruises covered her arms, legacy of the beating and her frantic flight through fields and woods. Her hair was a matted bird’s nest. Most of its pins had shaken loose as she’d fought her way through the hedgerows around Holcombe.
Before Gideon could question her or, worse, express the pity that lurked like a ghost under his outrage, she launched into the story she’d prepared. “I was traveling to my aunt in Portsmouth when…when footpads set upon me.”
Curse that telltale falter. Lying never came easily. He wouldn’t believe her. Which meant her game was up.
She waited in breathless suspense for him to brand her a sham and a runaway. But he merely whipped off his heavy black coat and stepped closer.
Fear had her backing away at a stumbling run until she slammed into a thick post. She strangled a scream as the impact shot jagged lightning along her arm. Automatically, she jerked forward, and he seized the opportunity to drop the coat around her trembling shoulders.
“Here.” He stepped away again.
Gradually, panic ebbed, and she straightened under the coat’s weight. Its warmth made her feel slightly more human. The garment swamped her, trailing on the ground. The fabric smelled pleasantly of fresh air and something clean and musky that must be its owner.
He was clever enough not to crowd her. Even so, she remained nervously aware of his commanding height and leanly muscled body, now revealed in black jacket, white shirt, and brown breeches that clung lovingly to long, strong legs. From his
highly polished boots to his plain white neckcloth, his clothing was simple but of the highest quality.
“Th…thank you,” she said through chattering teeth.
She blinked back stinging tears and clutched the deliciously cozy woolen folds around her like a shield. Strange, but his kindness proved the greatest threat to her fraying control.
“What is your name?”
The loan of the coat seemed to require some gesture of trust in return. “Sarah Watson,” she said in a grudging voice, stealing the identity of her great-aunt’s dour companion in Bath. Remembering her manners, she dropped into a stiff curtsy.
He forestalled her with another of those odd, incomplete gestures. His intent dark eyes didn’t waver. “May I escort you to some friend or relation in Winchester, Miss Watson? This stable isn’t safe.”
She wasn’t safe anywhere, heaven help her. Fear stirred low in her belly as she remembered what would happen if her stepbrothers caught her.
“I’m…I’m a stranger in this part of the country, sir. I’m from Carlisle.” The most distant town she could think of without actually crossing the border into Scotland. She stiffened the wobbly legs that threatened to buckle beneath her and glared at him, daring him to challenge her story.