Page 31 of The Lady’s No Angel

They rode out of the inn yard at a quarter past seven, having rejected offers of breakfast. Last night’s dinner was still lying heavy in their guts and so they bought milk and freshly baked currant buns from the baker and ate them on the road.

Angel knew this was terribly bad manners but only Milly looked at her askance. As the woman’s belly was grumbling loudly enough to hear over the rumble of the wheels and clatter of hooves, she overcame her scruples quickly enough, though.

Mr Cleaver hadn’t said a word to her about last night. Indeed, he’d been as cheerful and easy-going as always. It set her nerves all on end.

To her, the kiss seemed like a living, breathing presence between them. Every time she looked his way, she felt it stirring, waking and eager to burst into flames. So she tried not to look. She might as well have tried not to breathe.

He was just so wonderfully large and masculine, moving with such grace upon the handsome horse, in perfect accord with his mount. Angel could not help but admire the heavily muscled thighs encased in soft buckskin, and sigh as she took in his splendidly broad back and powerful arms and remember how it had felt last night when his warm hand had slid around her waist and—stop it!

“Well, Miss Baxter, we shall be in Eynsford by noon,” Mr Cleaver said, slowing his horse until the gig was level with him. He glanced down at her, his hazel eyes glimmering with curiosity as he watched her blush.

Angel could feel heat burning her cheeks and prayed he could not figure out what it was she had been daydreaming about. Likely he thought she was embarrassed about last night, regretting her rash behaviour. Thank the Lord he did not know how badly she wanted to do it again.

She met his gaze, putting up her chin defiantly.

“Indeed.”

“Well, are you going to tell me, who is the woman you are searching for?”

Angel swallowed. It had been inevitable, of course, but she did not know what to do.

Somehow, she knew her answer would determine what he did next. If she refused, he would be a fool to carry on with them. He had nearly died last night, and he did not know why. She could no longer pretend it was nothing to do with her. Why else would those men have attacked him, or ransacked her room? Somebody else knew about Black Jack’s treasure. They must have got wind of his death and assumed he would have given the information to his nearest and dearest—his granddaughter.

They wanted Mr Cleaver out of the way so they could get to her. The idea someone was watching, following her, made anxiety skitter down her back.

She dared not trust Mr Cleaver with the treasure or with any hint that they were looking for something of such value, but perhaps she could give him something.

Why? demanded a little voice in her head that sounded remarkably like Black Jack.

Because I’m not ready to say goodbye. It was the honest answer, if not a sensible one.

But Angel had never been sensible, or well-behaved or good. She had pirate blood in her veins, and she longed for adventure, and the man riding beside her was an adventure all on his own. What harm could it do to allow him to help her find Jenny?

Angel glanced up. Mr Cleaver was watching her intently. His gaze dropped to her mouth and an odd, ticklish sensation fluttered low in her belly, making her restless.

“I made my grandfather a promise before he died,” she said, aware of Milly watching her, eyes wide with surprise. “When he was a younger man, before he married my grandmother, he fell in love with a woman. She was wild and reckless, and she was hanged for highway robbery. He asked me to find her and put roses on her grave.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that, judging by his expression. She wondered if he was reassessing her after that revelation, wondering what kind of man would tarry with such a woman—wondering if Miss Baxter was as respectable as she appeared. Perhaps he no longer thought of her as a lady. If you took advantage of a lady, you must marry her, but any other female was fair game. It was unkind and unjust, but what in life wasn’t? It was simply how most men thought.

“Well,” he said, after a brief silence while he digested the information. “That was not what I’d been expecting. A romantic fellow, your grandfather.”

Angel said nothing, she’d already said a good deal more than she ought to have.

“Why begin in Eynsford?” he pressed.

Angel fidgeted, readjusting her hands on the reins as she decided how much to tell him. “Because this is where she was born. My Pops told me to start here.”

She did not meet his eyes, too afraid she would see the way he looked at her had changed.

“Very well. So, what do you know about her? Do you have an address? Somewhere to start?”

Angel shook her head. “Only her name. Jenny Preston. She was hanged in 1781.”

Despite knowing she ought not, Angel glanced up at him.

Mr Cleaver was watching her thoughtfully. “How did they meet?” he asked, his voice low.

Angel shivered. How she loved his deep voice. It seemed touch her as gently, as caressingly, as his hands had done last night. “She held him up,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her face. It was so easy to picture, for her at least. It would have delighted Black Jack to no end to come face–to-face with such a woman.