The Reluctant Guardian

Saying the words aloud helped her believe them. If only Mr. Knox had not scared Hugh away... No. It was not worth playing the if-only game. Once started, she would never quit. Her list of losses was lengthy enough to fill pages of foolscap. And writing such a pitiful list accomplished nothing.

Unlike a list of blessings. She had much to be grateful for, regardless of her circumstances. All around her, the glossy green leaves of bluebells carpeted the landscape. Gusts of wind stirred yellow-flowered gorse and rustled through the budding oaks, carrying the clean fragrance of rain.

Thank Thee, Lord.

How pleasant it would be to reach the summit of the little hill and enjoy the view. Gemma marched on. Then stopped.

She was no longer alone.

A plain-dressed man hiked toward her, his gaze on the trees. Skirting the hill behind him, a loaded cart trudged across the chalky Smuggler’s Road. A small party of musket-bearing men trailed in its wake, followed by a lone rider on an ink-dark horse.

Free traders.

Not that ladies spoke of such things in polite company. Nevertheless, the wealthy and poor alike avoided paying taxes and Customs duties on their tea or laces by purchasing smuggled goods, illegal though it might be. Who knew how much revenue the government had lost to smugglers? Peter and Wyling obeyed the law and shunned smuggled goods, of course. But as a child, Gemma hadn’t understood the illegal nature of the smugglers’ work. Years ago she and Hugh had followed Smuggler’s Road, pretending they hauled exotic wares from Christchurch Harbor, with plans to sell their imaginary spoils from the sanctuary of a ditch under the trees.

It was one thing to play a criminal as a child. It was quite another to engage the illicit fellows. Gemma hastened back down her side of the hill. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed.

“Ho!” The yell dispelled the notion she had not been seen. She quickened her steps, rolling her ankle in the process and slowing her gait to a painful, awkward trot.

A hand gripped her shoulder and turned her about. He was young, this smuggler, with pocked cheeks, a slack jaw and protruding teeth. “’Oo are you?”

“No one who wants trouble.”

“’Oo is it, Bill?” A shout called from above.

“Nobody, I think.”

Then let go of my arm.

A shot boomed from the trees, echoing off the hill. The sound reverberated while the smugglers burst into activity. The inky horse galloped up the hill. Its rider wore a look of thunder to match the rumble of his horse’s hooves.

“She’s not nobody, you fool.” He dismounted and yanked her from Bill. His free hand smacked her cheek, sending shock and pain through her jaw.

“She’s a trap.”

Gemma’s vision sparked red. “I don’t know what you mean. Unhand me.”

Another shot cracked through the drizzle. “Hide before you’re shot,” the horseman ordered his fellows. Then he ripped her bonnet from her head. “You’re too young for the Lady in Red. Too refined of speech to be a government girl. Whom do you serve?”

She wrestled against him. “I said unhand me.”

“I’ll not be generous because you are female, Jezebel. Whom do you serve?”

“No one—”

“Lies.” He yanked her arm as if she were a cloth doll, pulling her toward his horse.

The world seemed to darken at the edges, but she fought against the sensation. She must stay alert. Memorize his features so she could describe him to the magistrate when she escaped.

Taller than Peter but shorter than Hugh. Brown hair, gray at the temples. Blue eyes. About forty years of age. And a fetter-strong grip she had to break.

She twisted into him. Her free hand grasped the fingers shackling her and jerked them back. Then she kicked.

Her boot found his knee. He let go and she ran.

Her rolled ankle protested each step, but she dared not slow. The sting of the smuggler’s slap still prickled her cheek, and she didn’t care to suffer more from his hands.

Dashing through a gap in the trees, she hurtled into the dark of the woods toward home. Perhaps if she screamed for help—

Fresh pain pressed her arm and tethered her to the spot. A grip far tighter than the smuggler’s captured her and spun her around. She prepared to kick.

Father, make my aim true.

* * *

Pain split Tavin’s shin, but his Hessian boots did a fair job protecting him. He swept Miss Lyfeld’s leg back with his and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “But you must be quiet, or they will find us.”

Her clear blue eyes narrowed when she recognized him. At her nod, his hand fell. He beckoned her deeper into the woods. “Let’s go.”

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was an accusation, as if this was his fault. Well, it was. In part. Still, she had no way of knowing that. Could she speak to him—even in a whisper—without sounding like a wasp about to sting?

“Later.” He’d not noticed the welt blossoming across her cheek until now. Tavin’s fingers itched to return the favor to the man responsible. “Are you hurt?”

“More furious than anything.”

“I want to hear the details, but we must hurry.”

“Aren’t we safe now that we’re in the trees?”

A shot cracked into the trunk of a nearby oak. Not as safe as she’d hoped.

He pulled her by the hand and ran. Dodged trees. She slid, and when he pulled her back to stand, she winced. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. My ankle twisted on the hilltop.”

“I’ll carry you.” One arm swept around her shoulders. The other scooped behind her knees, but she stepped out of his hold.

“I won’t slow us down.”

His estimation of her raised a notch. “Come on, then.”

Crack. Would they never stop shooting? Another crack, as a bullet struck a tree. Then a third, hitting ground. Moldy leaves skittered up the hem of her cloak. Of course. He tugged her behind a thick oak and pulled on the cloak’s fastener at her throat.

Her fingers fought his. “What you are doing?”

“The red draws his eye.” He yanked the garment off and wadded it, inside out, into a ball. He stuffed it under his arm and gripped her hand again. To his surprise, she curled her fingers around his, pulling him to the right.

“My home is that way.”

“Not yet.” He jogged with her in tow for a short distance. Releasing her hand, he slid into a ditch, then lifted his arms. Before he could instruct her, she leaned into him. Her breath was hot against his cheek when he lowered her beside him. “Not much farther.”

He’d spent the past few days scouting these woods, never imagining he’d be running from gunfire with Gemma. He pushed aside a clump of foliage and gestured for her to precede him through.

Smelling of decay and earth, the small clearing offered slight protection. “A moment’s rest.” He gestured to a fallen oak where she could sit while he thought.

“The Gypsy camp.” She touched her ankle and winced. “Why did we not go straight home?”

“We cannot risk being followed.” He walked the clearing’s perimeter, straining to see movement through the trees. “You don’t want them to know where you live and thereby learn your identity.”

“But I meant them no harm.”

“They may have believed that, until someone started firing a weapon.”

“That was not you?”

“Do you see a musket?” He didn’t even have a pistol.

“Then who shot at them?”

“It came from here in the trees. I’d fathom a guess I’m not the only person in Hampshire displeased with that particular group of smugglers.”

“There are more?”

It was hard not to laugh. “Many. And it’s a competitive field.”

She pushed a damp curl from her cheek. Without her bonnet or cloak, she appeared vulnerable and young, but not as young as he’d first thought. Her cheeks had lost some of the fullness of girlhood. She may be about to embark on her come-out, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. “This makes no sense.”

It did to Tavin, but he’d not explain now.

A rustle. Tavin spun, his hand reaching behind his back for his knife—

Through a parting in the leaves, a dun-colored body sauntered several yards’ distant. Tavin’s shoulders relaxed.

“A pony.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “They run wild in the forest.”

“And it wants naught to do with us.” Tavin watched the creature. Its ears twitched, but it didn’t exhibit signs of alarm as it disappeared around a group of trees. That boded well for him, and Miss Lyfeld, too. He gestured for her to rise. “I’ve not heard a shot in a while. We’ll take a roundabout way and return to the house.”

“Where you will explain all of this to me?”

Her tone brooked no argument. Nor did the set of her jaw.

Better to change the subject than agree. “You said the man meant to take you with him. How did you break away?”

“I would not be a good aunt to two boys if I paid no mind to their tricks.”

Despite himself, he laughed. His smile fell when he reached the far side of the clearing. The pond he’d planned to skirt had swollen from last night’s torrent, blocking their path. “We could have walked around it yesterday.”

“You don’t mean we’re going through it.”

“I see no better option. We aren’t visible, with the trees circling us. And I’m certain the pond isn’t deep. Must I carry you?” He meant his words to be gallant, but they sounded frustrated. Of course. Everything he said came out wrong with Miss Lyfeld.

She squared her shoulders, shot him a glare and marched into the pond ahead of him.

* * *

Gemma might as well have trudged barefoot through snow. Spring-chilled water soaked her to the knees and flooded her kid boots, which found little purchase on the slimy stones underfoot. Not that she would complain. This was not the first time she’d crossed a pond.

“Take care with your steps,” he warned, “but make haste.”

“Make haste,” she mimicked, muttering under her breath, “but don’t slip—”

Faster than a blink, her twisted ankle rolled. Her foot slid out from under her.

Mr. Knox grasped her arm, pulling her upright. She expected to be chastised, but his eyes were soft and warm, like her morning chocolate.

Then he slipped, pulling her into the frigid water.

Gemma’s hands and rear smacked the stony bottom. Her backside stung, but she waved off Mr. Knox’s outstretched hand and stood on her own power. Shivering as the wind’s chill fingers stroked her soaked garments, she hastened toward the edge of the pool, thoughts of a hot cup of tea and thick blanket urging her forward. At least her front side was dry.

He extended his hand. “May I—”

“No.” She would do this.

Her wet gown tangled around her legs and she slipped again, this time landing on her elbows and belly. Frigid water drenched her bodice and lapped her chin as tendrils of slimy water plants tickled her neck.

Mr. Knox hauled her into his arms, as a lamb to its shepherd. With a sharp catch, her breath stuck in her throat, and her face warmed despite her soggy state. She’d never been this close to a gentleman before. She’d always imagined Hugh’s future embrace, slow to unfold, tentative, with a proper distance between them.

Mr. Knox’s arms felt nothing like her imaginings. He held her so close she could hear his heart thudding against her cheek, and his arms were solid and blessedly warm around her. Her insides flipped and rearranged themselves, and all she wanted was to turn her head toward his warmth and wish he could carry her all the way home—

What nonsense was this? She didn’t even like Tavin Knox. Did she?

He didn’t like her, either. But then he set her down on the bank, leaving her skin cold and her heart thumping, and his hand rose as if he’d touch her face.

“Hold still.” His fingers brushed damp tendrils of hair from her chin. More intimacies she’d never permitted a gentleman. Her pulse pattered in her ears as he leaned closer.

“You’ve a leech on your neck.”

All tender sentiment vanished. Her fingers flew to her collar. “Get it off.”

“Patience.” He glanced about, reminding Gemma of a dog sniffing the air for a fox. “Come into the trees.”

He led her into the cover of the oaks. She lifted her chin and he set to work with a touch far gentler than she expected. His fingers pressed her skin, first under her ear, then lower, where her pulse throbbed in a frenetic beat. Gemma forced her breath into evenness, concentrating on the calming sounds of the forest—the rustle of wind in the trees, the chit-chit of a nuthatch.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she hosted a leech. While wearing a sodden gown, allowing a man she didn’t like—or maybe did—to touch her neck.

Or that she’d been slapped by a stranger. Who then had shot at her.

“There.” Mr. Knox flicked a brown blur from his fingers. “Just think, you’d normally pay a physician for the privilege of losing your blood.”

For a moment his eyes met hers, then another shot cleaved the quiet.

A smuggler, or the man on the inky horse? Mr. Knox had her by the hand again. “Let’s go.”

They hurried, twigs scratching her arms and snapping in her hair. The trees thinned and they hastened over the path and then the slick grass behind the house.

They hurried through a French door into the ground-floor library of Verity House. Amy and her husband, Lord Wyling, hurried toward her, their faces etched with fear.

Amy’s arms reached out. “Darling. Let’s get you dry, shall we?”

“Amy, there were smugglers on the hill and then—Mr. Knox, where are you going?”

He brushed past toward the hall door, Wyling at his heels. “My business cannot wait, madam.”

“It must.” She stomped after him. “You know why this happened, don’t you? You aren’t the least shocked. Who chased us and why?”

The eyes that had gazed on her with warmth earlier now stared, dull as coal dust. “I don’t know him, but he would have interrogated you and perhaps killed you because you wore this.” Her cloak was still under his arm, and he dropped the sodden mess onto a chair. “Burn it.”

This was maddening. Mr. Knox, Wyling, Amy—not one of them showing the least amount of astonishment at today’s extraordinary events. Concern, yes, but they knew much more than she did. He’d said they’d speak later. Well, that time was now. “I demand to know what’s about, Mr. Knox. And I’m keeping my cloak.”

“Burn it,” he ordered, his hand on the doorknob. “Because that man will be thirsty to silence whoever wears it.”

Chapter Three

After leaving Miss Lyfeld in the house, Tavin and Wyling dashed up Verity Hill in the mad hope Tavin’s informant, Bill Simple, had dropped the promised clue before everything went wrong.

They’d found naught but Gemma’s discarded bonnet and a separate green ribbon, the hue of a budding oak leaf, wedged half under a stone.

It might be debris, carried atop the hill by the wind.

Or mayhap it was the promised clue to help Tavin comprehend the Sovereign’s plan. Nothing else made by human hands lay atop Verity Hill, although he and Wyling had spent more than an hour searching. No note, no sample of smuggled goods. Just a cheap ribbon lodged under a rock, its ends cut by a jagged edge.

Rubbish or clue?

What he wouldn’t give for silence to ponder things. Or to still be outside, where it was cool. Instead, he was now incarcerated in the Lyfelds’ overwarm drawing room, subjected to an incessant barrage of moans.

Eyes shut, Cristobel Lyfeld lounged on the sofa where Gemma—he’d given up trying to call her Miss Lyfeld in his head—had held hands with Hugh Beauchamp hours ago. “What will the neighbors say when they learn Gemma was mistaken for a smuggler? We will be pariahs.”

“No one will know.” Gemma perched beside her sister-in-law, blotting a compress on her brow as if she tended a feverish child.

This was ludicrous. His superior at the Custom House must be informed. In person. Tavin didn’t dare entrust a message—even a coded one—to a servant. “I must return to London with all haste. If I might—”

“I am faint! Oh!” Cristobel groaned, no closer to fainting than he was, and everyone in the drawing room seemed to know it. Wyling looked out the window, Peter studied his boots and Amy handed Gemma a cup of tea with a resigned air. Gemma alone ministered to Cristobel, murmuring words of comfort as she lifted the cup to Cristobel’s lips. She may have poor taste in suitors, but Gemma proved herself a capable, calm sort of female.

Pity she could not assist his work. Many of his hired men didn’t possess her patience.

Since their return from the forest, she’d washed and changed into a fresh white gown. A gauze scarf about her neck hid any trace of the leech’s bloodletting. “Mr. Knox, I am yet unsatisfied with your explanation.”

Of course she was. “I have told you all I can.”

She set down the teacup and hobbled toward him, favoring her untwisted foot. The scarf didn’t quite cover the kiss of the leech, after all, for the crimson Y-shaped mark was bright against her skin.

“All you’ve told us is that you work for the government and in my red cloak I looked like a certain lady smuggler.”

“Those are both true.”

“But you aren’t telling us everything. I insist to know what this is about, Mr. Knox. You owe me that.”

“Gemma.” Cristobel roused from the sofa. “Mr. Knox will think you a hoyden, speaking so boldly.”

But Gemma was right. Tavin had told her almost nothing, and if he was in her place, he’d be vexed, too. He rubbed his temple.

“Smuggling activity has increased in the area of late, with fatalities, so the government sent an investigator. Mr. Thomason. My friend.” Tavin swallowed past the sudden ache of pain brought by speaking Thomason’s name. “He was tasked with disbanding the ring led by a man who calls himself the Sovereign. But Thomason was killed.”

Not just killed. Left as a message, tied to a tree, a sovereign coin on his tongue. The Sovereign must think himself clever, leaving the coins as a signature.

Gemma’s eyes were soft. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Tavin nodded his thanks. “You can understand why it is so vital to me to stop the Sovereign, but he’s never been identified or thwarted. Until today. By you.”

Gemma flinched. Cristobel moaned.

Peter stood, and said, “When Wyling brought you to me, you said I’d be serving the Crown, allowing you to conduct your business here. You never said it would put my family in danger.”

“The danger existed long before I arrived.” Tavin stepped to the center of the room. “It met your sister on the bounds of your own property.”

“You knew, Peter?” Gemma strode past him, hands fisting. “You all knew? Yet no one thought to tell me. Even you, Amy?”

“We couldn’t, dear.” Amy bit her lip.

Overhead, the patter of small but heavy footsteps drummed like a tambour, rat-a-tatting across the nursery floor. Masters Petey and Eddie had escaped their inept nursery maid yet again. The Lyfeld boys were more of a handful than a sack of cats.

A memory flashed through Tavin’s brain, decades old, of him and his brother, Hamish, causing a ruckus by introducing a toad to their nurse’s pocket—

A ragged gasp tore from Gemma’s throat. Her gaze, fixed on the ceiling where the boys’ footsteps echoed, were wide. “The children. What if they’d been outdoors? They might have been shot. Or taken.”

Gemma cared more for the bairns thunking about above stairs than did their own mother. Tavin’s throat ached. “They were not. They are safe.”

She swiped her eyes. “If those children had been touched—”

“They weren’t. All I expected today was the drop of a clue—”

“Something else was expected, too.” Hugh Beauchamp’s proposal. Her voice was clear and cutting as glass, slicing into a part of his conscience he didn’t know felt pain anymore. “I would say that everything that’s happened to me today is your fault, Mr. Knox.”

* * *

The snapping of logs in the fireplace—a noise that always set Gemma’s nerves to fraying—was the lone sound in the drawing room while everyone’s surprised stares fixed on her.

Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have spoken like that. Mama had taught her better. “Forgive me.”

Mr. Knox’s brow quirked. Was he amused or aggrieved? “It is I who requires forgiveness, yet again, Miss Lyfeld.”

“I cannot blame you for today’s...events.” Her slapped jaw ached. Her ankle throbbed. Noise from Petey and Eddie’s exuberant play pounded against the ceiling, assaulting her temples but providing a means of escape. “Excuse me while I see to those boisterous boys.”

“You cannot go, Gemma.” Cristobel clutched the arms of the settee, her fingers like talons gripping the painted silk.

“I cannot see to the boys?” Was there more she didn’t know?

“You cannot go to London. Smugglers, weapons, the boys. I am in far too delicate a state to do without you now. You must forgo your come-out.”

Gemma’s next breath shook. She should have expected such news, for she’d heard it annually these past six years. The familiar pangs of conflict twisted within her. Every year when Cristobel postponed Gemma’s come-out, Gemma experienced a sense of relief, for she would be able to tend to the boys.

But there was also a feeling of loss. She yearned to experience the world. To leave this house and Cristobel’s domineering thumb.

Perhaps keeping her from London was God’s protection. She might well grow greedy in the capital. Yearn to visit more of the world. She would meet handsome gentlemen and might like one too much. She was promised to Hugh, even though she did not love him. Staying home prevented her from falling into temptation.

The hair on her nape prickled, causing her to look up. Mr. Knox stared at her, his brow still quirked, as if he could read her thoughts.

Ridiculous. He knew nothing of her. She turned away. “Mayhap it is for the—”

“It is not.” Amy stood. “Peter will be Baron Lindsay someday. It is expected that his sisters be presented at Court. Peter?”

“I cannot manage alone,” Cristobel interjected. “Those boys are too much to be borne.”

“We have a nursemaid,” Peter murmured.

“I shall take the children with me.” Gemma should have asked Amy and Wyling first. Her gaze begged them. “Will that ease your burden, Cristobel?”

Mr. Knox watched her, his face etched with—what?—disbelief. No matter. This didn’t concern him a whit.

“We would welcome them.” Amy laced her arm through her husband’s. “Think how the boys would enjoy London.”

Wyling, bless him, nodded. “We’ve plenty of room.”

Stomping and shrieks continued to sound from above. Gemma itched to join them. And tell them to quiet down, of course. After she embraced them.

Cristobel sighed. “For the Season. Then you must return home.”

Joy rose in Gemma’s chest. Amy sent her a triumphant grin. Wyling smiled. Peter stared at the rug. Mr. Knox, however, glowered. “I suggest we leave tomorrow, then.”

“We?”

His arms folded over his strong chest. “I will escort you. As long as you remain in Hampshire, you should not dismiss the danger of crossing paths again with the Sovereign.”

* * *

London filled Tavin’s eyes and ears and nose, familiar in its looming buildings, loud traffic and the sharp smell of the Thames. Home. Yet this didn’t feel like a homecoming.

He envied Wyling, who dismounted his horse outside his town house on Berkeley Square and assisted the women and children from the coach. Two long days’ travel had taken its toll on Tavin’s body and his nerves. He would not be off his own bay, Raghnall, for a while yet, and their rest would be brief. Come dawn, he and Raghnall would be back on the road to Hampshire.

“But I wish to ride Mr. Knox’s horse again.” Petey Lyfeld’s freckled features were burnished with eagerness as the six-year-old gazed up at Tavin. “Why did you name your horse Ronald?”

Tavin laughed. “Rao-nall.” He spelled Raghnall’s name as he patted the gelding’s broad neck. “It is an old word that means wisdom and power.” A tiny reminder of the Gaelic tongue that had infused his childhood.