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He stalked towards her. And as he did so she pressed even deeper into the plasterwork, her eyes widening with alarm. He supposed she must fear the consequences of having perpetrated—ah, there was that word again—whatever deception it was she’d attempted last night. As well she might. When she’d attempted to perpetrate whatever it was she’d been attempting to perpetrate she’d picked the wrong man.
He came to a halt a scant foot from her, wondering how best to make her abandon any loyalty she might feel towards her accomplices and put her faith in him, instead. Only then would she tell him what he wanted to know. Which was how the deuce had they managed to penetrate his disguise and what would be their next move?
The answer came to him when the ostler led his gig out of the stable, giving the girl a knowing, triumphant grin as he hitched the reins to a ring in the wall. If she wasn’t a whore yet she would be one by tonight, that look said. Willing or unwilling.
His whole being rejected the notion of abandoning any woman to such a fate. No matter what she’d tried to do to him.
Besides, he had his reputation to think of. Somehow the screeching woman with the bony fingers must have worked out who he was.
Or been informed.
Ah, yes, that would explain everything. Even the confusion and panic on the girl’s face. It would be just like Hugo to drag some unsuspecting third party into one of his pranks and leave them to pay the price.
And the devil of it was that Hugo knew he would do his utmost to hush it all up. That he would never let the family name be dragged through the mud.
‘Once I have left this inn yard in that gig...’ he pointed it out to the quaking girl ‘...you will be completely at that man’s mercy.’
Her eyes flicked wildly from the gig to the ostler, who was ambling in their direction, and to him. Only once she was looking at him did he continue.
‘You would do better to come with me. I will keep you safe.’
She didn’t look as though she believed him. Her inference that he might not be telling the truth was an insult so grave she might as well have spat at him.
Drawing himself to his full height, he bit out, ‘I give you my word.’
Something about his demeanour, or maybe the approach of the ostler, must finally have managed to convince her, because she nodded her head before shooting past him and clambering up into the gig.
The ostler’s face fell. And he actually did spit. At the pair of them as they swept past him and out into what passed for the high street in this scruffy little town.
The girl had wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture the moment he’d climbed into the driver’s seat. And he was so angry with her that for a while he didn’t bother to reassure her that she really was safe with him. How dared she insinuate that he was the kind of man who told lies?
Though, to be fair, these last few days he had been somewhat economical with the truth.
But never—not under any circumstances—would he harm a helpless woman. Not even an unhelpless woman. Oh, blast it all. There went his vocabulary again. There was no such word as unhelpless, was there?
The approach of a farm cart from the opposite direction caused him to abandon his vain attempt to find a suitable word to describe the girl sitting next to him. He needed all his concentration to get his vehicle past the cart in the narrow confines of the lane. Particularly since the farmer’s horse appeared to annoy the one harnessed to his own gig. What with preventing his bad-tempered nag from biting the gentle, rather stupid mare belonging to the farmer, and convincing it that it really did need to progress further down the lane, even though it looked as if it would be better sport to make the farmer’s horse back his cart into the wall, he had his hands—and his mind—completely full.
They were right out in the countryside, with the little town of Much Wapping far behind them, before he decided to speak to the girl again.
He found he was looking forward to coaxing her into speaking. The only word that had so far passed her lips had been huskily spoken. Like a velvet caress.
Velvet caress? Good grief, what was the matter with him that he was coming up with such bizarre ideas?
Anyway, he shouldn’t have to coax her into speaking again. Females, in his experience, were never silent. Not for as long as this anyway. Not unless they were planning something. He gave her a sharp look. She still had her arms wrapped around her middle. Her fingers tucked under her armpits. It struck him that she didn’t look merely defensive any longer. She looked cold.
Cold. Of course she was cold. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Or a bonnet. Her rust-coloured gown was made of good quality kerseymere, but a brief glance at her feet revealed an expanse of bare skin between the tops of her sturdy shoes and the hem of that gown. And it might be sunny, but this early in the year it wouldn’t be really warm until perhaps the middle of the afternoon. If then. She needed to put something else on. But she hadn’t any luggage, had she?
