Page 29 of Not a Fine Gentleman

He nodded. As she moved to the kitchen door, she glanced back. Outside the inn, a man wearing a battered beaver hat hovered near the stage while passengers got off, and others waited to get on. His face remained hidden.

Jackson, so close behind her that his body heat warmed her back, said under his breath, “Go.”

She pushed open the door, ignoring the startled glance of the boy peeling potatoes in the corner, and headed straight to the back door. Once outside, she glanced back again, but Jackson blocked her view.

“Keep going,” he said.

She stumbled over the toe of her overly large shoes and nearly collided with a narrow bench. As she bit back a curse, a faded color caught her attention. A limp bonnet lay on the bench. Perhaps it would help shield her face from any overly interested parties.

“Take it.” He dropped a shilling on the bench in place of the bonnet.

She almost smiled at his honesty. As Jackson led her on a straight path away from the inn, she tied the bonnet under her chin. The floppy edges obstructed her vision so much that she had little choice but to stare at the ground and try not to trip over her shoes while keeping Jackson’s boots in sight.

He led her past a clothesline, over a shallow creek, and wound through bracken and broken boulders the size of a pony. After climbing up a shallow incline, they strode into a stand of trees. Here, he stopped. She looked back, lifting her head enough to peer out from underneath her floppy bonnet. The hill afforded them a panoramic-like view of the area. Fields and trees, as well as the occasional cottage or shop, dotted the landscape. The stage, pulled by six horses, left the inn.

“There he goes.” Jackson pointed to a horse and rider cantering down the road, following the stage for a time before turning off onto an intersecting highway. He was gone for now. Would he find them again? Would others?

Margaret’s feet throbbed in cadence with her heartbeat as she struggled to keep up with Jackson’s long-legged stride.

Jackson slowed. “I’m sorry. I almost forgot about your feet. But it looks like we’ll have to go on foot until we can find another mode of transportation.”

“On foot…” she slumped.

“Perhaps we can buy a horse or a mule from a farmer so you can ride.” His mouth twitched. “It wouldn’t be a fine coach and four like a gently-bred lady such as you deserves, of course.” That mocking tone returned.

“Obviously, I would prefer that.” She lifted her chin, refusing to rise to his bait. “At this moment, I wouldn’t mind a flea-bitten nag if it meant not having to take another step on my sore feet. Wouldn’t the inn have a horse we could use?”

“I asked. Their horses are reserved to switch out with the stage and mail coaches.”

“Then we’ll take the next mail coach.”

He shook his head. “I don’t dare wait here with that man poking about.” He pointed off to the side. “Do you think you can get that far?”

She pushed back her bonnet and followed the direction of his finger. A stone cottage sat amid a large field. Behind it stood a barn and a paddock with three horses. Margaret was no judge of distance, but the farm seemed miles and miles away. How would she ever manage with sore feet and large shoes?

She must. That was all there was to it. With the stage gone, another not coming until the morrow, and some reward seeker hunting Margaret, they had few options.

She stood. “I’ll manage.”

He hesitated, glancing at her face, then at her feet. “I’d offer to let you wait here while I go look for a horse or something you can ride, but I don’t dare risk leaving you all alone.”

“I can make it.”

He held out a hand. “I could carry you again.”

The idea of him carrying her again—reminding her of his strength, placing his mouth so near hers, immersing her in his scent—made her want to run away. Or run straight back into his arms.

“That won’t be necessary.” She took that first step toward the small farm.

They set off together, Margaret grimly determined to bear her discomfort in silence. It didn’t last long. After only a few minutes, fiery darts of pain shot outward with every step. It left her gasping.

Jackson stopped walking. “This is ridiculous. You can’t keep this up.”

“You’d be surprised what my endurance is.” Her voice, broken by heavy breathing, contradicted her words.

“Up you go.” He swooped her into his arms and kept walking without breaking his stride.

Every nerve ending exploded, repeatedly, like tiny cannons firing upon an enemy army. Only this enemy was far too close and much more dangerous.