Читать книгу Marrying The Rebellious Miss - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Spoken like a perfect wife. The errant thought came to him as he stood in the centre of her efficient whirlwind, letting Beatrice strip him out of his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, laying them over the fireplace screen and picking up the heated towel. ‘Here, dry off with this, it’s warm. I am assuming a hot bath is out of the question if they can’t be bothered to deliver dinner.’ She let him mop his face and neck. His shirt was dry, protected from the damp by his other layers, fortunately for modesty’s sake, but perhaps unfortunately for his other senses. He was rather enjoying being fussed over.

Beatrice passed him another towel, saying, ‘For your hair’, before pushing him down into the room’s one chair and opening his travelling trunk. She pulled out clean clothes for him. ‘Your clothes will be dry in the morning, but you’ll need something for tonight.’ She laid them out on the bed.

‘Take care of yourself, Bea. I’ll do.’ Preston smiled at her efforts. Of course Beatrice would fuss over him. She took care of those in need whether it be a poor woman in a butcher shop or a hungry baby, or a soaking wet man. He didn’t mind. When was the last time someone had done for him? When he was at home, his valet did it, but when he travelled for the Crown, he was on his own. His work often required stealth and one could not be stealthy with a valet in tow.

Beatrice was a caregiver, it came naturally to her, part of how she took charge. Look what she’d done for her friends this past year, inspiring them to take life into their own hands; his sister had told him about the Left Behind Girls Club where the motto was ‘nothing will change until you do’. He’d seen evidence of it these last days, all the attention she selflessly lavished on her son. He supposed he’d always known that about Beatrice. She’d been the leader of the little group of girls since they were young. But to see it in action was another thing altogether, a reminder, too, that he might have grown up with Bea, but their adult lives had been spent separately. He might have known the girl she’d been, but he did not know entirely the woman she’d become. He’d like to know her, though. It was, in large part, what these past days in the coach had focused on. The journey was no longer merely a rescue or retrieval of an old friend, but a discovery. He had the sense she was doing the same with him, both of them exploring the same questions: who had they become in the absence of childhood and the presence of their own adversities?

Perhaps the more important question was: where did that discovery lead? They’d long since superseded the friendship of childhood in Little Westbury and they were fast becoming more than the sum of their friendship in London as new adults come to town. He knew it was due to the enforced proximity of the road. Once the road was gone and they were home, this sense of closeness would fade. It was how the road worked.

He watched her deftly change the baby into a fresh cloth, her face all smiles, her voice a gentle coo even when Matthew fussed and rolled, trying to thwart her efforts. Something inside him went soft. Would the closeness fade? He found himself trying on the old line of comfort: ‘maybe this time it would be different’. Maybe he didn’t want the closeness to fade.

Bea took a moment to play a game with Matthew, blowing on his belly before settling his clothes. The baby laughed, forgetting his own troubles, whatever they might be. Preston laughed, too, feeling some of the weariness of the day slip away when Bea looked over at him and smiled. It was not a special moment, the way milestone moments are, but he knew in his gut he would remember this moment for ever. His mind would keep a sharp picture of her at the bed, looking over at him with the laughing baby in her arms, as if this was his wife and his child. His family in truth. Then Matthew started to cry again and the moment was gone. Bea bounced him, trying to settle him down, undaunted.

Her patience was admirable, really. Preston knew she had to be as tired as he was after a long day in the coach and he wasn’t the one who had to feed the wee little fiend. Matthew hadn’t wanted to do anything today except scream and eat. He wasn’t looking forward to taking the baby down to the taproom, but what choice did he have? ‘Let me hold him while you get ready,’ he offered.

She gave him a tired smile of thanks. Eating in public didn’t appeal to her any more than it appealed to him, but perhaps for different reasons. ‘Thank you. I will just be a minute.’

Preston kept a hand firmly and obviously at Beatrice’s back as they navigated the taproom, letting everyone see that she was clearly with him, clearly under his protection. There was a knife in his boot if he needed it. He hoped he wouldn’t. But not that hopeful. The room was just as bad as he’d anticipated, noisy with the excitement of tomorrow’s horse sales and full of the odours that come with a room filled to capacity with wet, muddy men unaccustomed to washing.

The innkeeper caught sight of the baby in Bea’s arms and ushered them to a quieter table in the corner, a small blessing. At least if there was a fight, he’d have a wall at his back, a far more preferable arrangement to being surrounded on all sides.

‘We’ll take wine if you have it,’ Preston told the man, helping Beatrice to sit before taking his own seat that looked out across the crowded room. Most men were just in high spirits, but two tables worried him. The one near the door looked to be trouble in general, spoiling for a fight with anyone. It was only seven o’clock and they were already drunk. The table closer to them was a more immediate concern. That would be personal trouble. The big man had been eyeing Beatrice since they walked in despite his hand at her back, despite the baby on her lap and the bold gold ring on her finger. A man who didn’t respect such signs was trouble indeed if he decided to do more than look.

* * *

The first part of the meal went better than expected. The rough inn had an excellent cook. The innkeeper had taken a look at Beatrice with the baby on her lap and had not hesitated to supply the table with the best his kitchen had to offer, perhaps as an apology for not being able to serve them privately. After a day filled with unmet expectations, the excellent meal was more than welcome. The rabbit stew was tasty and seasoned, the bread freshly baked, the wine a nice complement to the meal—so nice, in fact, Preston wondered if it was smuggled. He always wondered. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He and Beatrice were able to exchange a little conversation underneath the noise surrounding them. Baby Matthew was entranced by all the activity around him and was behaving. They were small blessings, like the moment upstairs, when just for a second, everything had been right.

After the day Bea had endured, he wished he could give her more, give her better. Maybe it was that desire to give her more than a rough night out that prompted his decision when the innkeeper had leaned close and whispered there was bread pudding available for dessert for his more discerning customers. Preston had seen Bea’s eyes light up at the mention and he couldn’t say no. He rationalised dinner had gone well enough so far, what would a few more minutes be?

He should have quit while he was ahead. They’d no more than taken two bites of the bread pudding when the big man a few tables over decided to make trouble. ‘What about the rest of us? I want some dessert, too,’ he bawled at the innkeeper. ‘You’ve been sending the best to their table all night long.’

The innkeeper, well used to rough clientele and a burly man himself, was not daunted. ‘Dessert’s for patrons who pay their bill, Burke.’

But Burke wasn’t done. Getting no satisfaction from the innkeeper, he turned his attention to Preston’s table. ‘Maybe I want something else for dessert.’ His eyes passed over Beatrice. Preston readied his fists. There was a fight coming. It was nearly unavoidable. He’d give the man one chance to retreat.

‘My wife doesn’t care for your attentions,’ Preston said firmly, drawing the man’s gaze away from Bea.

‘Your wife is pretty. I’m just wanting a little kiss, we don’t get such pretty ladies in these parts.’ The man was drunk, Preston could smell the alcohol on him, and the man was sizing him up, weighing Preston’s leaner build against his own bulk and coming to certain, rather violent conclusions. Big men always did. Big men thought sheer strength counted for everything, they forgot about other elements like speed and height, and reach and athleticism, and that wasn’t even counting what Preston did for a living. While most of the smugglers were unsophisticated sailors, there were arms dealers who’d been a good deal more dangerous. One drunk man in a tavern didn’t worry him.

Preston rose, exposing his full height up close. ‘Go back to your table before someone gets hurt. My wife doesn’t want to kiss you.’ He was aware that Matthew had begun to cry and the sound of the baby’s distress angered Preston in measure equal to his desire to protect Beatrice from this scum. What sort of man made a baby cry? What sort of man came after another man’s wife?

‘Who do you suppose that someone would be?’ Burke leered. ‘Perhaps you should be the one sitting down if you’re worried about getting hurt.’ Burke reached for Beatrice. Preston swung.

‘No!’ Beatrice yelped and leapt back reflexively, clutching Matthew to her as Preston’s fist smashed into the big man’s jaw. The blow knocked the man sideways and Preston was on him, landing another hard blow before he could recover.

‘Take your hands off of her, you bastard!’ Preston’s voice was a guttural roar, his fists landing hit after hit, but not without some retaliation. The bully regained his feet and struck back, a meaty fist burying into Preston’s stomach. Preston doubled over from the force, but came charging back like a bull, taking Burke in the midsection and ramming him into a sturdy table, spilling plates and ale. It was all the provocation the rest of the taproom needed to join in.

Chaos was everywhere; tables tipped, chairs flew along with fists; tankards and plates became weapons and shields. Beatrice had never seen this much violence up close. She ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She ought to find a way out, but she didn’t. She felt quite safe in the corner. Preston stood between her and disaster and every other man in the taproom. Never mind there were forty of them to his one. Preston slammed Burke’s head into the table and the big man fell unconscious to the floor.

‘Bea!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Stay behind me!’ He grabbed her hand and pulled, tucking her in behind him, his body her shield. ‘Come on!’ They moved fast, ducking and darting through the melee, Preston’s fists clearing a path towards the stairs, felling one man and then another without hesitation, his face a stoic mask of intensity, his eyes fixed on the next opponent and the next. At the stairs, he pushed her ahead of him, his hand at her back, urging haste. ‘Go, go, go!’ His eyes were fixed over his shoulder on the taproom.

Bea gained the landing before she was aware Preston had stayed behind at the base of the stairs. She looked back in time to see Preston swing at a tall, bulky man with thick arms who didn’t go down. ‘You knocked out my friend. I don’t think I like that,’ he growled, something glinting dangerously in his hand.

‘Knife!’ Beatrice screamed out of an instinctive need to warn Preston, never mind her voice was one of many, sucked up in the chaos of the taproom.

Preston bent to his boot and came up in a fluid motion, a blade flashing in his hand, already swiping at the man’s arm, catching it. A trickle of red showed on the dirty shirt. Beatrice clutched the baby tighter, making him squall. The violence had suddenly become much more real now. Preston was fighting defensively, careful not to maim or worse beyond what was needed. She wasn’t sure the other man was taking such ethical consideration with his punches. The bleeding scratch had the man angry. He wanted blood of his own.

‘Bea, get in the room! Bar the door,’ Preston yelled, not breaking his concentration. Blood or not, she didn’t want to leave him. It was not in her nature to abandon a friend, but she had Matthew to think about and Preston, too. She would only be a distraction to him if she stayed. She took one last look at Preston holding the stairs, ensuring her safety, and ran for the room.

What if he didn’t succeed? Bar the door. That was the reason for the command, wasn’t it? Beatrice didn’t allow for the thought until her back was pressed up against the door of their chamber, the heavy oak shutting out the sounds downstairs, the heavy bolt hopefully prepared to shut out intruders if need be. What if the man’s knife got the better of Preston? What of other knives? What of other men who’d want to try him? He couldn’t fight for ever.

Beatrice set the baby on the bed and glanced around the room for a makeshift weapon. A candlestick. No. It was heavy, but it would require her getting far closer to an attacker than she wanted in order to be effective. She wanted something longer. Her eyes lit on the fireplace. A poker. Perfect. Beatrice crossed the room and wrapped her hand firmly around the handle, testing the weight. It would even be better if it were hot. Bea put it in the fire, feeling inspired. Any unwanted soul coming through that door would regret it.

The only soul she was interested in seeing at the door was Preston. At first, she started at any little sound. Fifteen agonising minutes went by and then thirty. Still, no one came. The poker glowed hot at the hearth. On the bed, Matthew had fallen asleep, exhausted by the excitement and the long day.

Beatrice paced. Surely they weren’t all still fighting? But it was almost worse to think of what it meant if the fighting was over. How would she explain to the Worths if something happened to him? She ran through a few experimental lines in her head.

I’m sorry, Preston was wounded in a tavern brawl. It was my fault because I wanted the bread pudding.

It sounded just as bad as she thought it would. It was all her fault, just as it was her fault he’d had to come to Scotland, had to be on the road for his birthday. Now, it was her fault he was embroiled in fisticuffs or worse.