Page 30 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 8

While Connor carried Meg, he firmly ignored the scent of her skin, the silken caress of her hair on his cheek, and her warmth and softness against him. Instead, he focused on keeping his arms secure and making steady progress toward the farm he’d spotted earlier. Meg’s arms around his neck were nothing—merely a practical placement. The softness of her body might belong to any woman—nothing special about this one. She was a rich, spoiled, proud, aggravating female who meant naught to him. The sooner he deposited her in her family’s care, the better. He could receive his payment and return to his London duties as a Bow Street constable. That world, he understood. It made sense—not this unpredictable, temperamental female who invaded his thoughts far too frequently for his peace of mind.

He’d seen plenty of beautiful women, and many of them had made their interest in him clear, but most of them were vain and conniving. Beauty was meaningless.

Of course, Meg had also been remarkably uncomplaining despite their difficulties, which showed rare strength of character. But that only gave further proof of her pride.

Yet, that kind streak she’d displayed took him aback. She’d helped the other passengers on the stage rather than demanding she be given her due as the highest—and probably only—person of rank among them. She was in possession of a keen intellect—enough to have made it this far north on her own. He doubted anyone on this journey would remember her as a woman with the imperious bearing of a member of the nobility.

Connor’s arms ached. Still, he marshaled onward. During the war, he’d marched for hours on end carrying a musket. He’d never imagined he’d use the same determination to carry a woman a mile or two—twice.

They wound through a grove of trees, steadily heading in the direction of the cottage.

“Oughtn’t we go that way?” She pointed off to the side.

He glanced up to check the direction of the sun. “This is the right way.”

“How can you be sure? We’ve taken so many twists and turns.”

“I developed a rather good sense of direction in the war.”

As he reached the cottage, he set Margaret down on a tree stump near a pile of wood. A farmer stood in front of a field, scratching his chin as he stared at his crops.

“Mornin’!” Connor called in an accent as close to the local one as he could manage.

The farmer turned and eyed him suspiciously.

“Me’n me wife—” Connor jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Meg—“we missed the stage an’ we’re in a bit of a hurry. Ya ’ave a horse we kin buy?”

The farmer eyed Connor, his suspicion turning to speculation. “Well, now. I don’t have one to spare. I need all my horseflesh for farmin’.”

“Do ya have one you use fer riding?”

The farmer laughed. “No. I ain’t that fancy. I walk or ride me plow horse if’n I have the need.”

“I’d be willing to pay a fair price for any horse.”

The farmer meandered over, making a show of thinking. “I do have Nel, here, but I sure don’t want to give her up, you see.”

And so the game began.

The farmer pretended reluctance to part with his nag, demanding enough blunt for a prize-winning racer, but Connor finally got the price down to a reasonable rate. In the end, they shook hands, and Connor left with a lighter purse and a horse—of sorts—that Meg could ride until they made other arrangements.

Using a leading rope, Connor brought a sad, swaybacked mare to Meg, who watched him with amusement. “You got fleeced, you know.” She grinned at him.

“True, but the farmer will lose a day’s work, or more, replacing his plow horse, and the money I gave him will get him a younger, stronger one than this sad creature.” He nodded toward the nag.

Still grinning and with something almost soft in her eyes, she said, “Good thing you don’t live here; once word gets out, you’ll become a target for every gull-groper in the county.”

He huffed a laugh at her use of low-brow cant. “No doubt.”

Her teasing had an odd effect on the beating of his heart, as did the merriment in her countenance. She really was a lovely creature, and at the moment, looked softer and more approachable than he’d ever seen her. An illusion, surely.

The nag lifted her drooping head and sniffed Meg’s outstretched hand. Meg let the mare sniff her hand before rubbing the horse’s neck and back. “Good morning, girl. I wonder what your name is.”

The horse let out her breath in a puff. Meg rubbed her neck and crooned to her. The mare’s ears swiveled forward to listen, her gaze trained on the woman.

“The farmer called her Nel,” Connor supplied.