Chapter Six

W hat the bloody hell am I going to do?

“What did you say, my lovely?”

Lawrence glanced up at the comely face of the woman who’d warmed his bed the night he arrived at the King’s Head. Her full lips curved into a smile, and he almost forgot the pain.

Almost.

She dipped her fingers into the salve and smeared it over his hands.

He flinched. Fuck —that hurt!

“Sorry, my darlin’, but you’ll be as right as anything in the morning, especially if your Millie warms your bed tonight.”

He held up his hands. “There’s little I can do with these.”

She pursed her lips into a perfect rosebud. “A shame to womankind if those expert fingers of yours cannot be put to use,” she said. “But it wasn’t yer fingers that gave me such a pleasin’ time when ye came here. Yer tongue will please me just as well—and I’ve a fancy to riding that proud cock of yours.”

She leaned forward, offering her lips for a kiss, but he turned his head aside.

“Forgive me, Millie,” he said.

“Did I not please ye the other night?”

“You pleased me well enough, Millie, but…” He shook his head. “I’ve not the appetite for pleasure at the moment.”

Millie began to wind a strip of cotton around Lawrence’s fingers.

“Curse that woman,” she said. “Miss High-and-Mighty Lady Arabella has much to answer for.”

Lawrence drew in a sharp breath. Doxies were known to be astute—but could Millie read his innermost desires that easily? Did she know that even the prospect of savoring that fiery creature—no matter how unlikely that may be—had ruined him for other women?

“Lady Arabella?” he said, aware of the tightness in his voice.

“Aye,” Millie replied. “As bad-tempered a harpy as I’ve had the misfortune of encountering, I can tell ye. I’d like to see her driven out of the village—and that duke of hers. She’s worse than him—bein’ a woman and all that.”

“You hate her because of her sex?”

Millie secured the bandage with a knot. “No, my lovely, I hate her for what she’s done to you—burnin’ your tools like that, then sending you packing without payment. A fine, hardworking soul such as yourself shouldn’t have to suffer at her hands.”

“It’s the way of the world, Millie.”

“Aye,” she said, “which is why I make my customers pay me in advance before I service them.”

Lawrence sighed. “I’ve no money to pay you.”

“Ah, bless you, lovely—I was going to offer you my arms for free.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” Lawrence said, “and comely as you are, I have no appetite for pleasure.”

She kissed his hand, brushing her lips against the bandage.

“There!” she said. “Your Millie will kiss the pain away. And ye needn’t worry about settling yer account here. Mr. Barnes is a generous man.”

“I won’t take charity,” Lawrence said.

“Male pride!” Millie let out a snort. “Them that are undeserving will take what they will, whereas those in need refuse an offer of help. I’ll never understand men like you.”

The chamber door was knocked upon, and a man appeared. Thickset with a thatch of graying hair on his head, ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes, the innkeeper nodded in greeting.

“Mind if I have a word, Mr. Baxter? It’s about your account.”

“Mr. Barnes,” Millie protested, “can’t you see he’s—”

The innkeeper raised his hand—a hand marked by callouses, the trophies of a life of hard work and toil. He gestured to Lawrence’s bound hands.

“Fixed you up right and proper, didn’t they?” he said. “Them folk up at the big house. Funny how them with the most are the least inclined to pay.”

“Lady Arabella burned all Lawrence’s things, Mr. Barnes,” Millie said.

The innkeeper’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”

Lawrence nodded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, I’ve nothing to pay for my room. But I can work for my keep.”

The innkeeper eyed Lawrence’s bound hands, doubt in his expression.

“Millie says they’ll be better in the morning,” Lawrence added. “I could tend to your garden if I’d not lost my tools.”

“He’s a fine worker, Mr. Barnes,” Millie said.

The innkeeper smiled. “It seems as if our Millie’s taken a shine to you—and I trust her judgment. Very well, if you wish to earn your keep, a day or so helping out in the stables should suffice, provided your hands have healed.”

“I can weather a little pain in the pursuit of honoring my debts,” Lawrence said.

The innkeeper’s face broke into a gap-toothed smile. “I daresay you could, with your physique. Are you a fighting man, perchance? We’ve a few bouts in the yard every Friday if you fancy it. There’s good money to be had—more if you can fell your opponent. I reckon you’d flatten Jakey Bates good and proper—and he’s needing a good pummeling.”

Lawrence shook his head. “The only adversaries I deal with are unruly gardens. I can wield an axe if you’ve any wood needing chopping. Though you’d have to provide the axe now I’ve lost mine.”

“You mean now that bitch destroyed it,” Millie said, loathing in her voice.

“I daresay I can find ye something to do in the garden,” the innkeeper said. “My Alice is always nagging at me to clear the back corner, but those brambles are so bleedin’ persistent—they come back every year.”

“You need to remove the root system,” Lawrence said. “If you merely cut them at the base, they’ll grow back with even more persistence than before.”

“And you can get rid of them for good?”

Lawrence nodded. “They find a way back eventually, but I can hamper their assault. There’s a tincture you can paint them with, but I’ll not be applying potions in a garden—they can poison the earth and impede the growth of other plants. Tending to a garden is about taking care of the plants and creatures that live there.”

“Your passion does you credit,” the innkeeper said. “Very well—if those hands of yours are up to it, perhaps you can see to the brambles. We’ve some old tools in the store doing nothing. You can take them home with you when you’re done. They’re nothing special but will help you get back on your feet.”

Lawrence shook his head. “Honest work I can accept, Mr. Barnes, but I can’t take charity.”

Millie let out a huff, and the innkeeper rolled his eyes.

“Stubborn fool!” he said good naturedly. “Are you so awash with friends that you don’t need any more?”

Lawrence let out a bitter laugh. “I have but one friend.”

“Who might that be?”

“His name’s Ned—Ned Ryman. He works at the inn in Brackens Hill.”

Millie’s face broke into a smile, and a flicker of female desire shone in her eyes. “Oh, that Ned! He’s a right charmer, he is.”

“He’s kind, certainly,” Lawrence said. “His niece is looking after my children while I’m here. And he’s looking for a home for me in Brackens Hill. I’m down on my luck, you see.”

Which was the understatement of the decade, seeing as he’d been evicted from his former home for rent arrears, turfed onto the street with three children clinging to his breeches, and had rendered himself penniless to travel to Brackens Hill to make a fresh start in the hope that a man he’d befriended at an inn would take pity on him.

Some fresh start that had turned out to be—losing what little possessions he had within a week of embarking on his future.

“You’ve two more friends right here,” the innkeeper said. “Isn’t that right, Millie?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Any friend of Ned is a friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve little cause to trust anyone if your life’s been hard. But it’s only by taking a leap of faith and trusting the unknown that we can find our true friends—them that stick by you in adversity, not just during times of prosperity.”

Lawrence stared at her, and she laughed.

“You needn’t look so surprised, lovely. A whore’s best placed to have an insight into human nature, seein’ as she experiences the very best and the very worst of it. Often in the same night.”

He squeezed her hand, flinching at the ache in his fingers. “Then I accept your friendship with gratitude and pleasure.”

“Excellent!” the innkeeper cried. “I’ll make sure my Alice gives you a hearty breakfast tomorrow, then you can start your day helping Luke in the stables.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Barnes,” Lawrence said.

“You can thank me by prospering and ensuring that you’re never defeated by the cruelty of others.” Then the innkeeper nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, young man. Take care of him tonight, Millie.”

Millie’s eyes flared with desire, but Lawrence had spoken the truth. He was in no mood for pleasure.

And he could hardly surrender to Millie’s ministrations when his mind was filled with desire for another woman—even if he loathed that woman with every fiber of his soul.

*

Millie’s salve was akin to witchcraft. Other than a slight soreness on the skin, Lawrence’s hands had almost completely healed from yesterday’s ordeal.

Anything a man failed to understand, or find a plausible explanation for, he attributed to witchcraft. Which, most likely, explained why so many women had been persecuted in the past. A man felt threatened by a woman with greater intelligence than he.

Might she be at risk of persecution for being more intelligent than her fiancé?

He let out a sigh and continued to brush the horse’s pelt. Lady Arabella plagued his waking thoughts as well as his dreams. Last night she’d visited him, her furious passion unleashed as he’d taken her into his arms—only to morph into a ball of flame, screaming in triumph until he woke up, shaking, to the sound of a cock crowing.

Curse her!

The horse let out a snort.

“Sorry, boy.” He stroked the animal’s nose. “I shouldn’t be wasting my time thinking about that spoiled creature when I’ve you to keep me company.”

The animal’s ears pricked up.

“Heard something, have you?” Lawrence moved toward the stable door and looked out.

Three riders approached the inn—two side by side, a third trailing behind. Lawrence recognized Dunton’s portly figure atop a black gelding. The man seemed unsuited to the saddle, ready to fall off at any moment, and the woman beside him seemed equally ill at ease. But the third rider steered her mount as if they were the same creature.

He caught his breath as they drew near.

The third rider was Lady Arabella Ponsford.

Unable to help himself, Lawrence stepped outside to get a closer look.

The road ran west to east, and the morning sun shone directly on the riders, the horses’ pelts glistening in the sunlight. A number of villagers darted to and fro, going about their business, stopping as the riders passed. The women dipped into a curtsey, and the men removed their caps and bowed, or touched their forelocks in submission.

The duke gave a cursory nod, and the woman beside him tilted her head, sticking her nose in the air to affirm her superiority.

As to the third rider…

Lawrence caught his breath as he noticed her looking directly at him. Her sapphire eyes widened as he met her gaze, and he smiled to himself at the fear in her expression.

You’ve every cause to be afraid of me, madam.

She glanced toward Dunton, curling her hands around the reins. Her mount shifted sideways, responding to the movement. Her lips parted, and she blanched.

She wasn’t afraid of Lawrence. She was afraid of them .

Hate her he ought to—but he couldn’t help the spark of compassion at the thought of Fate having placed her under Dunton’s ownership.

He could never hate her.

“Instead, I pity you, Lady Arabella Ponsford.”

Though he spoke in a whisper, she startled as if she’d heard. Her mount shook its head and reared up. With a cry, she grasped the reins, struggling to maintain control.

“Arabella!” the older woman cried. “Compose yourself in public.”

Lady Arabella tugged at the reins until her mount quietened. Moisture glistened in her eyes. Then she wiped them in a sharp, angry gesture and, before Lawrence could react, steered the horse toward him, forcing him into the side of the road. He lost his balance and fell into the ditch that ran alongside.

Shit.

Quite literally. The stench was enough to turn his stomach.

He clambered out, holding his breath to avoid expelling his breakfast. Ye gods —he was covered in the stuff.

“Arabella, leave that creature alone—it’s beneath you. Come here at once.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

She steered her mount toward her companions.

“What was that about?” Dunton asked. She leaned toward him and muttered something. Then Dunton turned and stared at Lawrence before curling his lips into a sneer. “Quite so,” he said. “The ditch is where he belongs.”

Then they resumed their path along the road disappearing at the far end.

Spiteful creature! First she’d ruined him, now she humiliated him—taking pleasure from both acts. But, despite her cruelty, he found himself wanting only one thing.

To see her smile—not the cold smile of calculation, but a genuine smile of pleasure.

How might those beautiful eyes look, illuminated with joy?

But, given the future she had consigned herself to, joy would forever elude her.