Page 12 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Her arms were seized, and she found herself face-down in the grass with a weight on her back. “No, you don’t. I’m not giving you another chance to clobber me.”

She strained to look back at her captor. A pair of cocky eyes in a familiar, handsome face peered at her.

She practically spat, “You.”

Fear and a healthy dose of anger swirled through her, and yet, a ridiculous relief that she hadn’t killed the man dripped into the mix. Her annoying compassion would surely get her killed. Or executed for a murder she didn’t commit. The man tied her hands behind her back, not bothering to be gentle. At least her gloves protected her skin from the rope, but her ribs were about to crack from the weight of the lout sitting on her back.

“Get off me,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“All in good time.” When he finished tying her hands, the weight left her body.

Margaret lay gasping, grateful to finally draw a deep breath. He pushed her ankles together and tied them next.

“I’m not a Christmas goose,” she growled.

“No, you’re a wanted fugitive, and you nearly bashed in my head. I’m not giving you another chance to have a go at me.” At odds with his attire, he spoke with the cultured accent of an educated man. He sat back on his haunches and eyed her. In a conversational tone, he said, “We can do this one of two ways. Either you can travel with me to London on your own and behave like a lady…”

“I didn’t kill Hennessey.”

“Then you should have stayed and told that to the judge.”

“The night watchman had something other than the law in his mind. And everyone had already decided I was a murderess.”

He paused. Then, “You’ll have a fair trial in the House of Lords.”

A brittle laugh burst out of her. “I wouldn’t have made it that far, not if that watchman had anything to do with it. Even if I had, Hennessy’s many friends would probably love to hang me for his death.”

He frowned. A large bruise on the left side of his head turned a deeper shade of purple, and a bump had grown to the size of an egg. “Your second option is that I can drug you with opium and take you back unconscious.”

“No.” The idea of traveling insensible and helpless with a strange man left her stomach in knots. She rolled onto her side, facing him, and struggled to a seated position—not an easy feat with her hands and feet trussed up. “I will not be drugged and helpless. And if you think I fought you hard before—”

He let out a breath as if gathering his patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Connor Jackson. I’m a Bow Street constable. Your brother Christian hired me to find you.”

He might be lying. He could simply be after some reward for her return—possibly offered by the Hennessy family. Her brother-in-law had become even less fond of her than Gibbs, but for entirely different reasons. It would be just like him to offer a reward for her.

She narrowed her gaze. “Christian hired you,” she returned, disbelief coloring her tone.

“He did.” The lawman nodded, his expression open. Sincere? Or a skilled liar?

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s worried about you—that you might not be safe traveling on your own with reward-seekers after you. Some would think nothing of roughing you up.”

She gave him a look she normally only gave to true simpletons. “Like the way you attacked and hog-tied me?”

“A necessary precaution considering our history.” Unrepentant, he touched the side of his head and winced as his fingers encountered the ever-growing bruise.

“Why did Christian send you? Why didn’t any of my brothers come?”

“Jared is out looking for you. Grant and the earl had already left London with their families. Christian sent messengers to notify them, but as of the time I left, they had not yet been reached. Christian stayed home to ensure information was relayed—and to look after the women—er, ladies.”

His words matched Cole and Grant’s plans to take their families to the country the morning after Christian and Genevieve’s dinner party. And it was so like Christian to facilitate communication and offer protection.

She nodded. “So, Christian hired a Bow Street Runner to find me.”

“We prefer the term ‘constable’ to ‘Runner,’ but yes, he specifically asked for me. I helped him when his wife was in danger—back before she was his wife.”

“Genevieve,” she supplied. He must have been the Runner—constable—who’d helped them when Genevieve’s former husband was trying to kill her. What a harrowing ordeal!