Page 22 of Lord of Mistrust

He rose immediately, and she fought the urge to flee back up the stairs. She must face him as if she cared not one whit for his opinion of her. Or his arousing touch.

“God give you good day, Mistress Emmerson. I trust you’re feeling well?” He bowed deeply.

Her heart began hammering in her breast. “Very well, I thank you, sir.” She hoped her voice sounded steady. None of the rest of her felt steady at all.

He waved a hand at the ever-present Sim. “Mistress Emmerson’s bag needs to be brought down, and tell Goodwife Hazelthwaite to put together a cold collation for my lady to eat later.”

Unsure what to do, Chloe sank onto the nearest bench and twined her hands in her lap.

Robert resumed his seat. “I’ve taken the liberty of hiring a private conveyance to take you to London. I feel that after yesterday’s adventures, it would be safest. The horses will need to be changed, of course, and you’re welcome to call the litter to a halt whenever you feel the need. I shall bear all the cost myself—’tis the least I can do. I deeply regret having distressed you.” He leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “And having misjudged you.”

She shot him a haughty look.

“Still angry with me?” He pulled a wry face. “I quite understand. Even though I sense you would abhor my presence, I must, nonetheless, apologize for not giving you my protection en route. The repercussions resulting from our adventure last night require me to remain here.”

Chloe was glad of the distant politeness with which he now spoke to her. Were it not for the heat stealing from her face to her neck and bosom, no casual listener would ever imagine that she and he had recently been so intimate.

Addlepated fool—fancy suggesting that they should wed! No one at home would ever know what passed between them. At least, so long as Uncle Matthew accepted her word about her visit to Southampton and didn’t make his own inquiries. She let out a slow breath. All might be well, if only she remained calm and poised.

“You’re most kind, sir. Thank you for your efforts on my behalf. I’ll await my luggage outside, and wish you a safe journey of your own. Good day to you.”

Good. Those did not sound like the words of someone who’d been bucking and writhing on a bed in response to this gentleman’s caresses. She rose and walked briskly past him and out into the sunshine of the stable yard.

But Sir Robert Mallory was not yet done with her. As she bent to enter the litter that waited outside, he caught her elbow.

“I seriously wish you’d reconsider my offer, Chloe. My fortune may not be great, but I mean to labor hard and increase it. I can boast a fine manor—Blacklands—in Berkshire, where you’d live very comfortably. I wouldn’t trouble you with my presence if you wished to be left alone, and should I die in pursuit of this country’s foes, you’d be an eligible widow. You would have your pick of all the local gallants, as well as the unwed nobles at court. Your reputation would remain intact, and I’d be freed from my burden of guilt.”

Tugging her arm away, she huffed at him, then settled down in the cramped, dark litter. Sim came running out to bestow her bag and a tied cloth containing vittles at her feet. The sooner she was gone from this place, the happier she’d be.

The moment Sim was out of earshot, she glanced up at Robert. He looked tired—his fair hair was tousled, and his bright eyes were dim from lack of sleep. But she mustn’t allow herself to feel sorry for him. Or to be flattered by the fact he’d repeated his offer.

“You paint a grim and lonely picture of wedlock, Sir Robert. I’ve already spurned one suitor who would have made my life a misery. I, therefore, have no compunction in refusing another.”

Any match between them would be a disaster. He’d only seduced her because he thought her a whore. Marriages were not—as far as she knew—based on lust and misunderstandings. Her pride revolted at the idea of marrying him to assuage his guilt and save her reputation. There must be more to wedlock than that, or naught but misery would result.

Although a fake betrothal to him would keep her out of Lord Brooke’s clutches a while longer. Mayhap, she should reconsider.

“Sir—”

But Robert was already gone. The litter tipped as it was lifted and she heard the jingle of harness as the two horses were attached to the shafts, one before and one behind. She stuck her head out through the opening to call Robert back, only to see him disappearing into the inn.

She fell back against the cushions as her conveyance jerked into motion. Alas—it was too late now to change her mind. It was doubtless for the best—one should never rush into decisions of such gravity, no matter how critical the circumstances.

She remained lost in thought as the litter was borne to the highway, where it turned up in the direction of London. It was going to be a damnably uncomfortable journey, bouncing around in this cramped vehicle, feeling every movement of the horses’ hooves, every stone, every pothole. But at least she was protected from the sun and would have the changing scenery to look at, a welcome distraction from the confusion of her thoughts.

A sudden shout disturbed her musings. The litter lurched and came to a halt. Before she could complain or question, a dark figure filled the opening. A stifling cloth was thrown over her head, and strong hands dragged her bodily out of the litter.

Chapter Seventeen

Despite the uneasy feeling that they had unfinished business, Robert forced the delectable Chloe from his mind and applied himself wholeheartedly to his work. His colleagues, Whiteley and Tilshead, would soon return from interrogating the weasel-faced man, so they could coordinate the search for the traitors’ stronghold. The White Hart could serve as their center of operations for the moment. Hazelthwaite’s hospitality was generous, his opinions sound. Robert could bespeak a private parlor, and the landlord would ensure it stayed private.

He’d barely arranged matters with his host when word came via Sim that the gentlemen he’d been expecting had arrived.

“Whiteley, Tilshead.” He nodded and invited them to sit and join him in a mug of mulled lambswool, made with freshly picked crab apples.

“What, exactly, have we learned from my would-be killer?”

Tilshead gave him a wry grimace. “I shan’t repeat all the fellow’s words, as many weren’t fit to be heard. But this particular nest of plotters consists of a further six vermin, I believe. They skulk nearby at a place called ‘The Whirlpool’.”