Page 35 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 9

Amale voice broke through the cocoon of safety wrapped around Margaret. “Meg, wake up. We need to leave.”

The aroma of hay and horses—and a delightfully male scent—stirred as the warm body against her shifted. She stretched and yawned.

“It will be light soon,” the male voice continued. “We need to leave before that trigger-happy farmer comes looking for trouble.”

Connor Jackson. The journey. It all came to her in a rush. She opened her eyes. Night insects sang, and a cow mooed. The warm body next to her moved away. She blinked at the shadowy figure. Strange, how she’d only known Connor Jackson for a few days, but already his outline had grown both familiar and comforting.

“Let’s go,” he whispered. A darkened hand reached for her. “Not a sound.”

She took Jackson’s hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. The moment she stood, her feet complained. She held her breath until her pain faded. Jackson kept hold of her hand as he led her to the barn door. Ginger nickered softly, her footfalls close behind. Jackson released Margaret’s hand and lifted the barn door’s latch. Outside, a rooster crowed a solo while a chorus of frogs still sang their nighttime songs. Predawn glimmered silver at the horizon, slowly edging back the darkness.

Margaret mounted Ginger, taking a moment to ensure her legs were decently covered and to find her seat. It wasn’t every day she rode without a saddle. Jackson took the leading rope and walked ahead.

There he went again, being gentle and protective, just as he had last night as she cowered during the thunderstorm. He’d done the same thing as a show for the Justice of the Peace after the accident.

Did he have a hidden motive for all of those seemingly kind acts?

Probably so. How stupid of her to let herself be attracted to a man—any man—again. She refused to put her heart in jeopardy again. Just the thought of it created a slow, simmering anger in her. She refused to be pushed around or led about like a helpless pawn. Too many men had controlled her destiny. It was bad enough she must rely on this constable for everything; she couldn’t bear the humiliation of being led about like a powerless child.

Margaret opened her mouth to object, but remembered his admonition for silence while they left the farmhouse. Once they reached the road, she reached down and snatched the leading rope to regain what little independence she could. Crisply, she said, “I’m perfectly capable of riding without you leading me like a baby, thank you.”

He looked back and lifted a brow. “I’m surprised you’re willing to risk it without a riding crop or your fancy riding habit. My lady.” His derision came through clearly.

With exaggerated loftiness, she shot back, “A lady must make do even when slumming with peasants.”

“I hope you choke on your snobbery.”

“I hope you choke on your poor manners.”

He muttered something under his breath but fell silent. They traveled for over an hour without speaking. Margaret chewed on her lip. Perhaps she shouldn’t have lashed out so much. Their comfortable conversation had been preferable to this silence.

But it was better this way. Best not to become attached.

A brisk wind blew, and her uncombed hair blew about in tangled strings. She gathered it at the nape of her neck and twisted it into a knot—a far cry from her usual coiffure. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a bath, a change of clothes. Tea or chocolate. A breakfast tray. How different her life had become! All the comforts money could provide seemed far away and surreal. She imagined lying in her feather bed, a fire crackling in the hearth, her lady’s maid, Taylor, bringing her chocolate, scones, and fruit while the other maids filled a hip bath of steaming, fragrant water.

“We’ll stop here for breakfast,” Jackson said.

“At last.” Margaret lifted her head.

A posting inn beckoned with all the warmth of home. A stagecoach stood at the ready, one team of horses hitched to it, and another being led away. The scent of fresh bread greeted her as she slid off Ginger’s back and stepped carefully on sore feet. While Jackson handed Ginger to a stable boy, the coachman blew a horn.

Margaret reached for the inn’s door, just as a group of people dashed past her toward the stage. A man with a long aquiline nose took a second look at Margaret and nudged his companion, a portly fellow with a brock stock round his neck, and said something to him. They both stared.

Margaret ignored them. Rude, staring men seemed to crop up everywhere. While her mouth watered in anticipation of a hot meal, she reached for the door.

“Lady Hennessy?”

Margaret’s steps faltered. Someone recognized her! She resumed walking as if she had not heard her name.

“It’s you, ain’t it?” the man said.

Silently, she pushed the door open.

The man with the aquiline nose and his portly companion rushed forward, and each grabbed one of her arms. “There’s a healthy reward for you, milady. Now come along quiet-like.”

“Release me at once.” Margaret twisted to get out of their grip and stomped on the portly man’s foot. Pain flared in her own sore feet.