If I Only Had a Duke(23)

Molly regarded her warily. "He didn't make you any promises, did he?"

"None whatsoever. Quite the opposite. He's gone out of his way to show me how very much he dislikes me."

Of course there had been that kiss. Quite promising, that kiss. Thea wanted to know more.

In London, a kiss such as that would have meant she'd been compromised.

But they weren't in London anymore.

When she thought of the kiss, it was as though she'd wrapped it up in brown paper, tied it with a bow, and given it to herself as a gift.

She'd undo the ribbon later, in privacy, when she had time to relive the memory in all its perplexing glory.

"Let's not worry about the future now," Thea said. "First things first. A hot meal for you. You're awfully hungry-looking."

She took both of Molly's cold hands and chafed them between her hands. "When was the last time you ate a full meal?"

"Two days, I think." Molly's eyelids drifted down across cheeks scattered with pale brown freckles.

How could a man have wanted to steal her virtue? And her money?

How lucky it had been their carriage Molly had chosen. Her life hadn't been easy, and her bluster and tough talk were the shell she'd developed to survive.

Molly leaned her head against the carriage wall. "I do feel tired, my lady."

"Rest now. We'll be in Bath soon enough."

Molly curled up against the wall and Thea wrapped her cloak over her.

Why did the duke have such a hard shell? Must be his brother's death. And his mother's illness. Thea knew his father had been notoriously cruel and ruthless, and he'd owned several exclusive gambling clubs.

Maybe the duke's life wasn't as carefree and self-serving as she'd assumed.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside an inn in Bath.

Thea had been so engrossed in her thoughts she hadn't even noticed the streets becoming crowded with other carriages.

Thea didn't want to wake Molly just yet. She looked so exhausted and pale, poor thing.

The coachman helped Thea alight, and she shivered in the nighttime cold.

The duke dismounted and whispered something to his tired horse, smoothing its flank. He didn't glance her way.

The upstairs room of the inn was full of cheerful light, and the faint sound of fiddling and stomping feet drifted down.

"Is there a festivity?" Thea asked a stable boy.

"A dance, ma'am."

The boy stared behind her, at the carriage. "Your carriage has yellow wheels. With red trim. What's the gentleman's name, ma'am, if I may be so bold?"

Thea glanced at the duke. Best to maintain their fiction. "His name is Mr. Jones."

The stable boy nearly jumped out of his skin. "Mr. Jones, you say? Thank you, ma'am. I must be going now." He hurried away toward the inn without another word.

Odd. Wasn't he supposed to stay and help Con with the horses?

Con arrived, his breath visible as he spoke. "Where's the dread highway hoyden?"

"She's sleeping, poor thing. We'll need to find her a hot meal."

Con nodded. "We should all have some sustenance . . ."

He was interrupted by the door of the inn bursting open to reveal two heavyset men with red, angry faces.

"Jones," one of them roared, shaking his fists. "Which one of you lot is Jones?"





Chapter 11





What now? Couldn't they just have a nice quiet journey to Bristol? Why did there have to be all of these forbidden kisses in carriages? And country lasses dressed as highwaymen?

And now these two buffoons.

Beady eyes glaring, ham fists raised, mouths twisted into sneers, shouting for Jones.

"Now then, gents," Dalton said in a deliberately jocular tone. There's been a mistake. You see, I'm not Jones."

Con moved to stand beside him.

"Eager to rent us the carriage, was he, your Mr. Jones?" he whispered to Con.

Con gave a small shrug. "Suppose we know why now."

The man with bushy black side whiskers and a scrunched-up face like a bulldog, who was obviously the leader, stepped forward, halting a mere foot away from Dalton. "You've a black traveling chariot with yellow-painted wheels and red trim." He spat into the sawdust. "And that bit o' muslin"-he jerked his head in Thea's direction-"identified you as Jones, didn't she?"

"Aye, that she did," said his equally sullen companion, who wore a ragged red neck cloth.

Dalton groaned inwardly. Of course.   





 

"I told a lie," Thea piped in. "His name isn't Jones."

Bulldog turned. "What's ‘is name, then, love?"

"It's . . . it's . . ." Thea began, obviously searching her mind for a new story.

Oh, now that was truly helpful.

"You're Jones," the man roared, rounding on Dalton. "And you're going to pay what you owe to Mr. Gatling."

"Sorry to disappoint you, my fine fellows. I'm not Jones. I rented this carriage from him, though. Now, if you'll excuse us, we need to find a hot meal."

Why were there no other people in the stable yard? Seemed to be some sort of festivity occurring in the inn. There were candles blazing from an upstairs window, and the sound of music.

Bulldog followed his gaze. "Everyone's dancing and drinking punch. No one's likely to hear your cries."

Dalton laughed.

"What you think he's got to laugh about?" the man in a wrinkled red neck cloth asked.

"I'm happy because it's such a nice night," Dalton said. "Crisp and cool. With the smell of new leaves on the air. Spring will be here soon and even miscreants such as you will feel a lift in your steps and a song in your blighted hearts."

"Who are you calling blighted?" Bulldog lurched closer.

"I never have a lift in my step," Red Neck Cloth asserted.

Not a bright duo, but brawny. Enough muscle between the two of them to subdue an elephant.

"How much does Mr. Jones owe you?" Dalton asked.

"He owes Mr. Gatling one hundred pounds, what he stole from him cheating at cards a week ago."

"I see. Disreputable character, this Jones?"

"Mean as they . . . say now." Bulldog squinted. "You're Jones. Stop with the trickery and hand over the money."

"There's been a mistake, gentlemen," Thea began, but before she could finish that thought, Molly emerged from the carriage, blinking and rubbing her eyes.

"What's happening out here?" Molly asked.

"None of your concern, lad," growled the man in the red neck cloth. "Unless you've got our hundred quid."

"I don't feel well." Molly swayed on her feet. Thea laid a hand on her arm.

Molly's face was ghostly white in the yard lamps and her brow had a sheen of sweat.

Thea slid an arm around her shoulders. "What's the matter?"

"I think . . . I think I'm going to . . . faint."

Con leapt to her side and propped her up. He felt her brow. "She's got a fever," he stated.

"She?" Bulldog asked. "A she wearing trousers?"

"We need a physician," Thea said.

Dalton longed to go to her side, but he had to deal with these blunder-heads. "Con, take the women inside. I'll continue conversing with these fine fellows."

Con hoisted Molly into his arms.

"That girl's wearing trousers," Bulldog observed.

"What strange things are you up to, Jones?" Red Neck Cloth asked.

Dalton made certain Thea was inside the inn, away from harm, before he turned back to the men. He couldn't let her see this. She was already so suspicious, he didn't want her to see him flatten these fellows in under twenty seconds.

He'd have to prolong it a bit, just in case she witnessed from a window.

Allow them to land a few blows, so it wouldn't seem too easy.

"Now then, gents." He shrugged out of his coat. Rolled up his shirtsleeves. "This won't take long."

There were answering guffaws.

"Not take long ‘e says. There's two of us and one of him."

"I like those odds," Dalton said.

The laughter died. "Right cocky for a man who's about to be beaten to a bloody pulp."

"Who'll be first, then?" Dalton asked. "Come on, don't be shy. Bare knuckles. Queensbury's rules."

He knew the one with the red neck cloth had a knife-he could tell by the way his fingers twitched over his pocket. But Bulldog had the look of a professional prizefighter and wouldn't be able to resist a bare-knuckles challenge.

The men squared, set to, and Dalton moved closer.

He'd let them take the first blow, to give them confidence.

The evening breeze carried the sound of hands clapping and fiddles sawing.

Dalton had no choice but to put up his fists.

And dance.

"Hit me," he taunted. "Hit me, you bloody imbeciles."

Dalton took the full force of the first blow on his jaw. His head whipped to the side and he staggered a few steps.

Bulldog went for the gut this time, his meaty fist connecting with Dalton's muscled stomach.   





 

It stung, but he'd been conditioned for this.

The thud crack of bone against bone.

Spittle and blood flying.

Dalton spat a thick ribbon of crimson onto the sawdust. He blinked in the sudden salt sting of sweat.

He'd taken a blow that would have felled any other man.

But this was why he trained every day.

Punished his body and his mind.

So that he could recover from blows like this.

Each blow that connected with his flesh made him want to shout with wild laughter.

This was real. Real pain. The kind that made him forget everything else.