Cards & Caravans (4 page)

“The next town’s maybe five miles. That’s what, another half hour at this speed?”

“Thereabouts.” From what her grandfather had said, the machine could do fifteen miles per hour in good weather and daylight, but only about ten in these conditions.

“We’ll stop there for more coal and water, if you think it’s safe.” She noticed his burr had thickened as they traveled—he was clearly Scottish, though he’d likely been educated in England.

“Aye.” Had she really said that? Heavens, she’d lived in Scotland so long she was starting to sound like a native herself.

“Were you born here in Scotland, or on the Continent?” he asked a few minutes later. Clearly the man didn’t have the knack of keeping quiet for long.

“Wales, actually. I’ve traveled across Europe, but mostly here in Britain. I’ve lived on the farm for nearly ten years.”

“You were an infant bride?” He sounded genuinely shocked, and she couldn’t help a small purr of feminine pride. She did look younger than she was. Even the last few years of poverty since the crops had failed hadn’t aged her prematurely.

“Not nearly.” She laughed. “I was eighteen.”

“Well, that is practically an infant, isn’t it?” He didn’t even hesitate or pause to do the math. “How long since you’ve been widowed?”

“Seven years.” Long, lonely ones. Micah had been her dearest friend. They’d met when he’d been in Carlisle, taking his crops to market. She’d always be glad he’d stopped by the circus on a whim. Their courtship had been brief but sweet, and after their wedding, they’d enjoyed a healthy degree of passion. Was it so wrong that she now felt a stirring for someone else?

You’re
still
a
young
woman
,
my
sweet
.
Don’t
chastise
yourself
for
normal
human
feelings
.

Of course. Micah had always been the practical one. “I’m sorry,” Connor repeated. “The squire said he fell?”

“From the hayloft.” She sighed. “He’d gone up to rescue an injured bird, but it flew in his face and made him stumble. I was right there, but there was nothing I could do. His neck was broken in the fall.”

“Tragic.” Even over the engine, she heard genuine sympathy in Connor’s deep voice.

“Yes.” She choked back a sob. Typical Micah—he’d given his life for an animal that hadn’t even appreciated it.

For a long while Connor shoveled coal in silence. Belinda basked in it, unused to constant conversation. Then she glanced ahead and saw the row of horses stretched across the road. Her throat went dry and she had to try twice to yell to Connor, “Bloody hell, he’s called out the army. They’ve cordoned off the road.”

* * *

Shite
. Connor shoveled in one last load of coal then went to join Belinda in the driver’s box. He pointed to the controls. “Which levers do what?”

She spit out the answers in a long, barely coherent jumble.

“Good. Now go hide in the cabin, and don’t make any noise.” He eased in behind her and reached for the throttle, his hand briefly grazing hers as he took control. A tremor coursed through his skin at that minimal touch and he knew he had to see more of the unorthodox widow.

“Be careful. We don’t know how much the squire has told them.” She lingered in the doorway.

“I’ll be fine. Go.” He waved her toward the midsection of the caravan, a miniature sleeping compartment similar to a Pullman berth. He thought the whole thing was quite clever and looked forward to showing it to his grandfather and sister, who shared a love for all things mechanical. And Wink, of course. Odd how now she was an afterthought, not in the forefront of his mind. Maybe time did heal some wounds.

As Connor slowed before the blockade, he cast a small spell on his person, hoping it was good enough.

Two minutes later, the wagon drew even with the wooden barricades, and the officer in charge motioned for Connor to stop, flashing a pistol. After easing the huge vehicle to a precarious halt, Connor slid his own revolver from his belt and kept it in his left hand while he cranked down the window with his right.

“Is there something wrong, Major?” Connor hoped the officer saw a younger man, slimmer and with light brown hair.

“We’re searching for a fugitive.” A burly fellow with bristly muttonchops coated with ice leaned in the window. “And just what the bloody hell is a circus caravan doing all alone at this time of night?”

“Not that I should have to explain myself, but it’s a birthday gift for my brother-in-law, Baron Findlay of Torkholm.” Connor arched a brow in an obnoxious parody of an aristocrat’s sneer. He could do snooty with the best of them when he wanted to. “Magnus has an odd fascination with steam machines.”

“Torkholm? Isn’t that in the islands? You’re not going to be able to drive that there.” The sergeant had approached and stuck his head in as well.

Connor shrugged. “He’s visiting friends over near Bellston. How he gets it to the island is his problem.”

The sergeant eyed Connor grimly. “Who are you? You don’t look like gentry.” He raked his eyes over Connor’s filthy face and shirt.

“Sir Thomas Hadrian,” he replied, shamelessly stealing his best friend’s name along with his appearance. “And you’d be filthy too in this thing.”

The major grunted. “We’re searching for a fugitive, Sir Thomas. Have you seen a woman, fleeing on foot or horseback along this road?”

“Not a soul out and about but me,” Connor said. “Wouldn’t expect a woman alone could get too far in this. Might want to check that inn I passed a few miles back.”

“We already have,” the sergeant growled. “You sure she didn’t sneak on board with you?”

Connor snorted. “My stallion is in the back. I assure you, he’d have let me know quite loudly if anyone had invaded his territory.” Which would have been true if Mephistopheles was really here. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m expected to have this ridiculous thing to Kay’s Tower by first light. Happy hunting.”

Sergeant Mustachio looked like he wanted to argue, but the major held up a hand, sending Connor on his way.

Nodding farewell, Connor cranked up the window and eased the throttle forward, setting the wagon in motion again. The horsemen moved around him, maintaining their soggy vigil on the road.

“We may not wish to stop at the next tavern,” he said as Belinda returned to the front. “I’ll shovel some more coal, but when we reach the edge of the next town, we’ll switch again. They may have warned someone to be on watch.”

“Thank you.” She slid in front of him to take the controls. For just a moment, the tight confines pushed her pert backside into his groin.

Connor wondered if the bed in the back was big enough for someone his size, and sturdy enough for active sport.

No
. He couldn’t take advantage of a woman running for her life. Hurriedly, he left to add coal to the boiler.

They passed through two more towns without incident but Connor noted watchers at the edge of each settlement. By the third, they were nearly out of coal and water for the boiler.

He went back into the driver’s compartment to talk to Belinda. “We need to stop at the next inn.”

“If they have any coal,” she said glumly. Lines of fatigue were etched into her face.

“If they don’t, we can sleep for a few hours and find somewhere in the town to sell us some coal in the morning.”

“You really think it’s safe?” She looked hopeful at the thought of a rest.

“I do.” One way or another, he wouldn’t let them have her.

“That sounds marvelous.” She eased past him to take the throttle. “Thank you.”

“After shoveling coal for a couple hours, I could do with a rest myself—and a bath.” He was covered head to toe in soot and coal dust. His clothes were unquestionably ruined.

Before he could do something silly, like touch her, he went back to the boiler and shoveled some more.

* * *

By the time they reached the Blue Raven Inn, Belinda was ready to fall over. She was amazed at Connor’s stamina, but even his strong back was beginning to stoop, as if aching from the unaccustomed labor. They’d gone maybe twenty-five miles, leaving another ten to Connor’s home. They ought to press on, but the roads were dreadful, and it wouldn’t do to get themselves killed in the dark. Belinda was far from convinced that going home with him was a good idea, but she was too tired to come up with another.

After wiping his face with his handkerchief, Connor put on his frock coat and greatcoat while she drew the wagon to a halt in the empty field beside the inn. She put on her cloak and let Connor help her down after he’d retrieved his saddlebag and the carpet bag with her clothing from the sleeping compartment.

“Once we’re settled inside, I’ll come back and tend Nick,” he said. “I’m sure someone can rustle him up some oats.” Even Lucifer was tired and nestled snugly in her arms, weighing her down until she could barely walk.

“Hullo.” Connor approached the man behind the bar. “Any rooms still available for the night?”

“Aye. Who’s askin’?” The barman at the bar gave them a careful look and then added, “Sir?”

Fortunately, Connor’s fine wool greatcoat covered his filthy shirt and trousers. “Sir Thomas Hadrian,” he said, reaching over the bar to shake the other man’s hand. “And my wife, Lady Hadrian, of course.”

Belinda smothered her own gasp with an all too real yawn. “Excuse me. The inn in the last town was full up, and we’re just too exhausted to go any farther tonight.” The idea of her ever being Lady Anything was laughable, but she couldn’t cause a scene by contradicting him in front of witnesses.

The barman looked him up and down, then finally shrugged. “All right. First room on the left at the top of the stairs.”

“Thank you.” Connor reached across the bar and shook the other man’s hand. “What do I need to pay to get a bath sent up?” Connor asked.

“No worries, there’s hot water and a hip bath in the room.” With another nod, they were dismissed and Connor stepped back to allow her to precede him up the stairs.

Inside the room, she set her cat on the bed. “Just one room?” She was supposed to share a bedroom, with one average-sized bed, with him? The bathtub and loo were simply tucked behind a screen—not even a proper door to provide privacy. Ah well, she’d endured worse back in her circus days and even those accommodations had been luxurious compared to the gaol.

He shrugged. “I told them you were my wife because your squire—not to mention the damned army—is looking for a woman on her own, not a married couple, and most definitely not a lady who’s in a ‘delicate condition,’ which is the hint I intend to drop when I go downstairs to pay the innkeeper, along with a fat bribe for keeping his mouth shut. You needn’t worry about your virtue. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

The bastard was laughing. Not out loud, but the creases beside his eyes gave him away. He thought this was funny. Damn him. She’d just lost her home, her friends, almost everything she owned.

For the first time since this whole ordeal started, Belinda broke. She struck out at him, punching him in the chest with her fists. Tears began to run down her cheeks and she gasped for breath.

He stood for a few moments and let her pummel him. Then he swore viciously and pulled her against his chest. Strong arms banded around her as she cried, soaking his coat with her tears. He rocked her gently and eased into a wooden chair, pulling her not inconsiderable weight down onto his lap, still soothing her like an injured child.

“Easy, there, blackbird. I’m not going to let them catch you.” His breath was soft against her hair. “You’re safe. Once we’re at the Tower, you can take all the time you need to deal with things and decide what you want to do next.”

“Assuming I’m not going to be executed?” She sniffed. “Find a position, I suppose. Perhaps someone can use a slightly inept housekeeper. I’m not very good at keeping things tidy.” Sniffles punctuated her sentences. “I hear there’s a market for card readers and palmists in London. Maybe I can set up a shop.” She hiccupped loudly.

“You’re exhausted, frightened and likely in shock. There’s no need to make any decisions tonight.” He kissed the top of her head, and she could have sworn she felt the stirrings of an erection through her layers of clothing.

Connor stood suddenly, lifting her away from his body and setting her down on the bed. “Now have your bath and crawl under the covers. I’ll go take care of the caravan and your mule, pay the man and then come clean up myself. Are you hungry? Should I have them send up some tea or soup?”

“No.” She was too tired to eat. “Go. I’ll try not to fall asleep and drown in the bathtub.”

“That’s my girl.” He tousled her hair as if she were a child, then, whistling, strode out of the room.

* * *

“Word came over the old teletext machine,” the barkeeper said when Connor came in from watering the mule and settling him down for the night. “Seems folks are looking for a gypsy witch and a man named MacKay.”

“MacKay, huh.” Connor kept his face impassive. “Isn’t there a family named that hereabouts?”

The barman nodded. “Old Sir William up at Kay’s Tower, near Bellston. He’s a good man. Helps out the locals, from what I understand. I’ve got a sister up that way. Lady MacKay always comes around if someone’s sick or in trouble.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. So if someone did pass through here, say with a steam wagon that’s to be a gift for Sir William, that someone might be able to count on a safe night’s sleep?” He accepted the pint the other man handed across the bar and waited for an answer.

“Aye.” The barman shrugged. “Can’t say I pay attention to names and descriptions. A man pays his money and doesn’t cause any trouble, I leave him alone. Especially with a wife who looks like she’s dead on her feet.”

“My thanks.” Connor paid for the room, the ale, and made arrangements for coal and water to be loaded at first light. Finally, he added a hefty gratuity. “The wife’s in a delicate condition and she’s really feeling the cold and damp. Any chance of an extra blanket?”

“Cupboard’s at the end of the hall, help yourself.” With that, the barman moved off to tend someone else.