Page 28 of Lord of Mistrust

What man who’d been sent to meet him? What did Robert know of this business and the reason she’d been kidnapped? How had he known where to find her?

He rummaged in his saddlebags, produced a clean shirt, and pulled it carefully over his head. She could tell his injured arm was already stiffening, and her questions were forgotten. They must hurry back to the inn where some physick could be found—he’d been injured in her defense, and needed help.

“I regret to say that I’ve left my coat in the undergrowth near the mill. My sword also. But we have the dag, and I’ve hidden our enemies’ blades, so none can make use of them. Let us assume only one of their number is yet at large, and that we shall arrive unchallenged. Up you go.”

Hands about her waist, he hoisted her onto his mount, then climbed into the saddle behind her. “You’ll travel more comfortably in my lap. More safely, too, methinks.”

He gave her a crooked grin and settled her against him. She nuzzled her face into his neck to hide her blushes, and his arm tightened around her. She took comfort in his closeness—it quelled the trembling that now wracked her body and it helped her defeat the threatening tears.

The sun was westering as they started their journey back. The air had cooled, and though the sun’s rays still gilded the trees edging the road, a light breeze had sprung up. Chloe fervently hoped they wouldn’t meet anyone—her current situation was hardly one in which a young gentlewoman should be found. Whatever would her aunt and uncle say if they knew?

Mayhap that part of her that was Mistress Dela Riviere was now coming to the fore. She was beginning to be distracted from her woes by the dusty, musky smell of Robert’s body. She was captivated by the rise and fall of his chest, and by the taut muscles where her hands clasped him.

He had most certainly proved his worth today. Why—he’d even bled in her defense! Perchance she ought to reconsider his offer of marriage to protect her name. He’d not painted a pretty picture of wedded bliss, but the circumstances had been harrowing, so mayhap he should be forgiven for that. He seemed to like her well enough. He had a manor, he’d said, and doubtless a house in London, both of which he’d been prepared to put at her disposal. And if she was betrothed to Sir Robert Mallory, there would be nothing Lord Brooke could do about it.

Perchance she should encourage that interest she’d perceived in Robert, make the most of any future tender moment. Marriage to him might be exactly the solution she’d been looking for.

Chapter Twenty-One

Drooping from weariness and pain, Robert found that the ride to the inn with Chloe took on the quality of a dream. Luckily, Fate smiled on them—there were few people about, and none of them took much notice of the bedraggled riders sharing the same steed.

His lovely burden was barely awake when he reined the horse to a halt and slid her gently down to the ground. To his great relief, Tilshead came racing out of the inn and was able to steady Chloe as she roused from her daze.

Robert dismounted quickly, and regained possession of his prize, settling a proprietorial hand on her shoulder.

Tilshead sketched them both a bow. “Sir Robert. What the devil have you been up to?”

“Patience, fellow. And pray, watch your words—there’s a lady present. I’ve been saving the damsel, as you see, and putting a number of our foes out of action. They had her imprisoned at a derelict fulling mill. What have you been up to, sirrah?”

Tilshead looked smug. “I mustered the hue and cry and set an ambush at Ralston Hill. The traitor sent to parley with you was wounded, but he managed to run. The men are still tracking him now. It shouldn’t take long—he spouted curses at us, some of them in Spanish. I doubt he knows the area as well as the local fellows. Nasty looking creature, with half of one ear missing—shouldn’t be too hard to find. ’Tis a pity you missed the fray—it would have entertained you.”

Robert wasn’t pleased to hear that the man had escaped. “What of our captive, that weasel-faced cur?”

“Name’s Harris, it turns out. He’s still safe, if not quite so sound as he once was. He may be of further use to us. Is this your Mistress Emmerson?”

“Aye. Mistress, may I present Master Tilshead, a grizzled old mercenary now doing his bit for the local justices. Mistress Emmerson has had a trying time of it and needs to rest.”

Tilshead’s gaze dipped to his arm. A pox on’t—the knife slash was still oozing.

“Looks as if you need to do likewise, sir. Shall I send Sim for a sawbones?”

“It would do no harm—he can look Mistress Emmerson over, too, and make up a tonic for her. Where’s Whiteley?”

Tilshead stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Off up to London with your dispatch. There was a large party of wool merchants heading that way, escorting several wagons of cloth, so he’ll be well-protected. Shall I send Hazelthwaite and a couple of men to that mill? They can see if there are any more vermin to round up.”

Chloe swayed against Robert, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. The poor woman was exhausted and had eaten nothing since that morning. Come to think of it, nor had he. It would be a relief to hand matters over to the doughty Tilshead.

“There’s not much rounding up to do. One fellow may be able to give you information, but I fear the rest are beyond talking.”

Tilshead raised a questioning eyebrow. “How many did you kill, sir?”

“Four.” Robert cringed at the critical look in Tilshead’s eye. Four potential informants now dead—he could read the man’s thoughts. “I lost my temper,” he added, clenching his jaw.

Tilshead whistled between his teeth. “God forbid I should ever be around when you lose your temper, Sir Robert!”

“I shall endeavor not to lose it with you,” he promised. “How fares the litter driver? It looked as if he was soundly beaten, and he must have staggered some distance to raise the alarm.” Had the man not done so, he might never have stolen a march on the conspirators and wrested Chloe from their clutches. He might even now be suffering from their brutal torture, and his precious dispatch would once more be in enemy hands.

“Beyond our help.” When Robert raised his eyebrows, Tilshead shook his head. “His heart gave out, poor soul.”