A lie. Of course he could. He would if he had to.
“I’d scream if you did,” she said defiantly, even as her shoulders drooped under the weight of his coat. And the weight of her despair and fear, he guessed.
Why was he so determined on rescuing this prickly-tempered waif? She stood before him, trembling with pain, panic, and weariness. Her dark bronze hair was a tangle around her pale face. Her gown was ripped and stained. Bruising hid any beauty she possessed.
He bit back a caustic grunt of laughter.
Even if she was a beauty, what use was that beauty to him?
He quashed the acrid question and shot her a straight look. “It’s February. It’s cold. You’re in no fit state to go on alone.”
Tulliver appeared in the doorway. “I’ve arranged the carriage, guvnor. The landlord is chasing up the grooms.”
Gideon watched terror flood the girl’s eyes. She was definitely eager for nobody to see her. He needed to know why. “Go back into the stall, Miss Watson. Khan won’t hurt you.”
“I’m not frightened of your horse,” she retorted. She tugged the coat around her slender body and withdrew into the darkness.
The staff at Winchester’s largest inn were used to arranging transport for patrons. The small closed carriage was ready for departure within minutes.
Gideon stepped into the stall. The girl huddled behind Khan. He tried to quell his automatic reaction to the crowded space and the darkness. But the gloved hand he placed on the rough wooden divider was unsteady.
Thank God the gloom hid his reaction. What confidence could she have in a rescuer who trembled like a willow at the merest shadow?
“We’re ready.”
She straightened and wrapped the coat around her like a cape. He supposed she couldn’t bear to force her injured arm into a sleeve. As she looked up, he caught the shine of her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
He shrugged, trying to appear as if aiding stray maidens was his everyday activity. “You need help.”
“It doesn’t seem enough when I see the trouble you’ve taken.”
“It will earn me points in heaven,” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel. He extended the bundle he held. “I thought you might like this.”
She didn’t immediately take it. “What is it?”
“A shawl. The night is cold.” And she’d need to cover that distinctive hair when she entered the carriage. Although if he told her that, she’d know he tagged her tale as a pack of lies.
“Where did you get it?” Her voice dripped suspicion.
He hid a smile. She was so wary, so defensive. Yet if he wanted, he could render her unconscious in the blink of an eye. That possibility had occurred to him, but he’d dismissed it. She’d had enough violence done to her.
“Tulliver bought it from a lady at the inn.”
Good thick wool—he thought with a moment’s regret of the shimmering, gorgeous fabrics he’d seen in India. He lifted the brown shawl briefly to his nose and sniffed. “It smells of pug, but you’ll welcome its warmth.”
To his surprise, she gave a short huff of laughter. “I’ve been sleeping in a stable. A whiff of eau de chien won’t unsettle me in the least.”
The chit had backbone. He’d always admired courage, and this girl had more than was good for her. Something tired and rusty and long unfamiliar stirred in his heart. He stifled the unwelcome sensation and offered the shawl once more. “Miss Watson?”
“Thank you.”
As he’d known she would, she wrapped it around her
head and shoulders. In his enveloping greatcoat and with her head covered, she looked almost anonymous. He couldn’t miss how she favored her right arm. Was it broken? Again, he wished she’d let him take her to a sawbones.
“And take this, just in case.” He passed her the pistol and watched her slip it into the coat’s voluminous pockets. “Do you know how to use it?”
He already knew the answer. She handled the gun with an ease that indicated familiarity.