Page 28 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“He’s dead, but he still hurts me.” She shouldn’t have said that. Jackson probably believed her a murderess. Her words might strengthen what he viewed as her motive.

Still kneeling in front of her, his gaze turned searching. She cleared her voice and brushed away another tear. When did she turn into a watering pot? Connor Jackson stared at her with those multi-colored eyes that suggested something deep and carefully protected lay inside him.

She broke eye contact and stood. With socks and bandages padding her feet, the pain in her feet lessened. She wiggled her toes.

“It feels much better.” She offered him a pained smile. “Thank you.”

He stood. “You’re welcome. The mail coach is due in an hour.”

Margaret took a cautious step forward. “I hope I don’t trip; the shoes are a bit big.” Lest he think her unappreciative of his gift, she smiled. “I really am grateful for them. Thank you.”

He glanced down at her feet, then back up to her face, and nodded. His lips parted, but he turned away before speaking.

Margaret moved to the small, cracked mirror dotted with black marks common in old mirrors, and smoothed her hair. Her hand froze as her own face stared back at her. A purple bruise on one cheekbone stood out starkly against her skin. Another bruise, black and blue with a cut across the middle of it, marred her forehead, visible through the wispy curls below her hairline.

“How is your head?” he asked from the door.

She traced the bump on her forehead. Good heavens. It was the size of a chicken egg. She turned away. “It doesn’t hurt as much today.” The heat of his stare increased as she drew near him as if he were the fire in a stove. She couldn’t look away. “You? Any pain?”

His lips twitched. “Nothing to speak of.”

She nodded. He might be putting on a brave face, of course, but perhaps she had not injured him as much as she’d feared when she’d hit him with the stick. And then, of course, there was that accident. They were both fortunate to have survived with so few injuries.

Though she barely brushed against him as she moved to the corridor, heat skittered over her skin at the contact. Without looking at him, she walked gingerly on her sore feet down the narrow stairway.

Diners filled the main room. Others milled about outside past the windows. Jackson’s footsteps thumped behind her. Each step sped up the beating of her heart. This was mad. She didn’t want him—he was a Bow Street constable who would think nothing about dragging her before the law for a crime she didn’t commit. In addition, she had no use for men. She had a rare gift of widowhood now and would never be wounded by a faithless husband again.

Gritting her teeth, she marched to the table nearest the kitchen door. Jackson pulled out her seat for her. The act of a gentleman. She glanced his way, but his face might have been frozen for all the emotion it revealed. He took a chair opposite her.

They passed the remainder of their time in the main room. Jackson seemed jumpy—watching the door at Margaret’s back and glancing around every few seconds as if he expected a dozen bandits to come charging in wielding swords and clubs.

She leaned forward. “Is something amiss?”

His gaze flicked to her. “Just keeping watch.”

She waited. When he offered nothing more, she asked, “Are you expecting trouble?”

He hesitated. Her breath stilled. Finally, he parted his lips, once again drawing her focus. Now was not the time to succumb to wanton fantasies about a man she couldn’t have and most certainly didn’t want.

“Someone was in here looking for you last night—showing people a miniature of you and asking if they’d seen you.”

Hot and cold prickles raced down Margaret’s backbone.

He continued, “I told him I saw you accept a ride with a farmer headed toward Nottingham. I don’t know how long he’ll follow my mislead.”

She tried to swallow but couldn’t make it past the dryness in her throat.

He glanced around again. “I’m pretty sure he was after the reward posted for your return.”

“There’s a reward?”

“The mail coach is here,” someone called.

She jumped at the noise. The clattering of hooves, the rumble of wheels, and the jingle of tack filled the air. The helpless sensation of being thrown about in the accident froze her limbs. But she had to go. She couldn’t very well walk all the way back to London. Determined, despite her apprehension, she stood.

As Jackson rose to his feet, he froze, his entire body vibrating tension. In a low voice, he said, “Quickly, head for the kitchen.”

“He’s back?” she whispered.