Lord Dashwood Missed Out(11)
“Probably,” Griff agreed.
And he knew forcing his friends to continue this quest was folly.
“You should turn back,” he told the three of them. “Take shelter in that pub we passed a few miles ago. Warm yourselves before heading home. I’ll go on alone.”
Thorne cursed.
“What my friend means is, this is nothing,” said Bram. “We’re infantrymen. We marched over the Pyrenees in the dead of winter. Twice.” He slid a glance in Colin’s direction. “Can’t speak for my cousin, though.”
“I’ll have you know, I traveled the full length of Britain in under a fortnight,” Colin said, clearly not wanting to be outdone. “Some of it by public transport. There was mud.”
Joking aside, Griff knew that Colin didn’t like traveling by night—and for good reason. But he was here out of friendship, and so were Bram and Thorne.
The size of his social circle might have declined in the years since he’d married a serving girl, but the quality of friendship had grown immeasurably.
Thorne said, “Lead on, Your Grace.”
As Griff moved to mount his horse, he noticed a light winking at them from the far side of a distant hill.
Fresh tracks of horses and wagons—several of them—led in that direction.
“What’s that?” he wondered aloud. “Some kind of inn?”
It would seem unlikely that Miss Browning would take shelter so far from the main road, but there were few stopping places along this stretch of highway. If the weather had taken a sudden turn, they might not have had a choice.
“Might as well have a look,” Bram said.
As they approached, it became obvious that the building was some sort of stop for travelers—or had become one, due to the storm. Lights burned in every window, and the hoofprints of several horses led toward the barn. Sounds of conversation and the clink of dishware came from within.
Maybe this was it. Perhaps they’d found her.
And perhaps there would be dinner in it, too.
They tied their horses to a post in front, then stamped the worst of the snow and mud from their boots as they headed for the front entrance.
As they approached the door, Colin sidled up to him. “How about this? The South Sussex Scoundrels.”
Griff stifled a groan.
Yes, he was grateful for friends. To a point.
He pushed open the door, leading the way inside. “For the last time, we don’t need a—”
The words died in his throat.
They’d entered a large, open room—packed with men grouped in small clusters around tables.
To a one of them, every man in the place went silent, turned, and stared at Griff.
And then they reached for their guns and knives.
A closer look told him the reason. These tables weren’t laid with dinner plates. They were heaped with sacks of spices, bolts of silk, casks of spirits.
His eye fell on a small barrel labeled . . . Jerez de la Frontera.
Sherry.
These were clearly smuggled goods—or perhaps a ship had wrecked in the storm, and this was the haul from shore.
Damn. This was no wayside inn. They’d stumbled into a den of thieves.
And all the aristocratic blood in the world wasn’t going to rescue them. Even the bluest blood spilled red from a sliced throat.
“What’s all this?” A big, ugly mountain of a man rose to his feet. Clearly the leader. His nose and cheeks were pitted with old pockmarks, but his eyes seemed to work well enough. PoxFace surveyed their group from their muddied, expensive boots to their mufflers.
Their stupid, matching striped mufflers.
Colin cleared his throat and addressed the men. “Say, is this not the Ceylonese Mission Society meeting? I’m afraid we’ve taken a wrong turn, brothers. So sorry to trouble you. We’ll just be on our w—”
PoxFace motioned to one of his subordinates.
The door slammed shut behind them. Griff heard the scrape of an iron bar pushing through the latch. A bow and a hasty apology in retreat wouldn’t get them out of this.
They’d have to fight their way out. And find a way to take that sherry with them.
Bram cleared his throat, drawing Griff’s gaze. His hand went to the pistol at his side, and then his eyes darted in Thorne’s direction, indicating that the officer was ready, too.
Colin’s hand tightened on Griff’s shoulder. “I’ve a knife in my boot,” he murmured. “Bram’s saber is yours for the taking.”
Griff gave him a tight nod.
“Now,” PoxFace sneered. “Who the devil are you lot?”
With a swift, satisfying clang of steel, Griff drew the saber and leveled its gleaming point at the smuggler’s pitted nose.
“We’re the Lords of Perdition.”
Dazed from her fall, Nora attempted to get her bearings. Her cheek was pressed to the floorboards. Her limbs were sprawled at odd angles. Her hair was a righteous disaster.
Lord. She was so, so grateful Dash couldn’t see her right now.
“Nora?” The door rattled.
Dash.
Good Lord. While she was here preening, he was still outside.
“Nora!” He rattled the door again. “Nora, are you hurt?”
She tried to respond, but her breath had been knocked from her. As she scrambled to her feet, she heard a muffled oath. Then a crash as he rammed the door with his shoulder.
Apparently, he was back to Plan A.
“Nora, be calm. I’m coming for you.”
She pushed herself to her feet and hurried to unlatch the door. She managed this just in time to intercept Dash’s next attempt to ram the door.
Which meant he ended up ramming her.
His eyes went wide, and he tried to stop himself, but the momentum was established. He caught her in his arms, and together they crashed to the floor. They landed in a tangle of limbs and linen. His weight atop hers.
And Nora began to think she would never breathe again.
He searched her face with grave concern. “When you didn’t answer or open the door? I thought you’d been injured in your fall.”
She shook her head.
“Were you injured just now?”
Again, she shook her head no.
“You’re distressingly quiet.” His hands moved up and down her body, assessing. “We need to get you warm.”
Nora wasn’t going to object to that.
Dash lifted her onto the small bed, spreading his coat for her to lie upon and heaping the quilt atop her. Delicious warmth seeped into her chilled body—but even better was his intent, competent focus. The firm confidence with which he moved.
She loved how tender he was being. How he fussed over her, in his brusque, unfussy way.
She was reminded of that afternoon he’d taken her hand beneath the schoolroom table. Dash could be stern and haughty at times, no question. But when it counted, his was a caring soul. And that heart . . .
The woman who won that heart would be rich indeed.
As he tucked the quilt around her middle, Nora winced.
He frowned. “What is it?”
“I landed on my hip when I came through the window. It’s probably a bit bruised.”
Without hesitation—and certainly without asking permission—he pulled the blanket aside and hiked her shift to examine her.
He turned onto her side, exposing the pale slope of her thigh to the firelight, and ran his fingers over the surface of her skin. Her flesh rippled with tiny bumps. Beneath the quilt, she was aflame.
“Nothing broken, I think.”
She shook her head.
“You’ll mend?” he asked.
“It would take more than that to keep me down.”
His eyes caught hers. “Good.”
She laughed nervously. Absurdly. Then, even worse, she wet her lips. Out of desperation, she dropped her gaze and stared at his hand on her exposed thigh. Perhaps when he withdrew his hand, she would regain her sense.
But he showed no indication of removing it. In fact, his thumb slid idly back and forth. Cherishing. Thoughtful.
“Now then,” he said. “Let’s go back to the subject we were discussing out in the snow. Right after that magnificent kiss, and before the slamming door interrupted us.”
Nora couldn’t begin to recall. There was nothing in her mind but this moment. His touch. His voice. His warmth.
“You’ll have to remind me,” she whispered. “What subject was that?”
“You were about to tell me you loved me.”
CHAPTER NINE
Beneath the quilt, Nora’s heart flipped in her chest. “I was not.”
“You were. I know you were.”
Her jaw moved, but she couldn’t make words.
His gaze pleaded with her, both vulnerable and defiant. “Just say it. Doesn’t matter if you stopped long ago. Just say the words this once, and I won’t ask again. It’s only . . . I can’t recall ever hearing them before.”
Oh, curse him and his shameless appeals to her romantic heart. One sweep of those dark, needing eyes and everything in her melted to liquid.
“Dash, you must know how we all loved you. You were part of the family.”
“And you? Did you love me as a brother?”
Her heart pinched. What would the words cost her now, but pride? And they could mean so much to him.
“No,” she said. “I did not love you as a brother. I loved you with imprudent, reckless abandon. I loved you with all the heart and soul I knew how to command.”
He dropped a kiss to her bruised hip. His hand stroked down the length of her bared leg, and he curled his fingers around her ankle.