11. Golden Girdles and Growling Gnarlers

11

GOLDEN GIRDLES AND GROWLING GNARLERS

"Be abused of the notion I do not know exactly what you did earlier—stealing the rest of that boy's victuals."

Feeling no remorse whatsoever, Reaver panted through a bit of a head toss that had his lovely, if tattered, ear flapping up against his thick neck.

Victuals. When dinner or food would have done just as well.

Aye. This deep in the night, this alone , Mikey was back to using his priggy tone to express displeasure.

Pah. The stable master had already stuffed the unlodged lad so full, 'twas a wonder the bantling could sleep.

Reaver allowed a good amount of his agile tongue to loll out the side of his mouth, past his bottom jaw (so Mikey could admire its impressive proportions) and gave a halfhearted whine. A single woof .

"Nay, he doesn't seem to have any people of his own," Mikey answered, astute man that he was. One did not gain the various positions in life he held, regardless of their birth, without talent and skill to see them advance. "Aye, I shall see he finds someone before I hie back to London."

Mikey pulled out a tin of some thick, oily substance. Reaver had seen him do it before, so didn't need to bestir himself to investigate. 'Twas of the sort typically used to keep saddles and other leather supple. The man scooped some out and slicked it between his fingers. Then he slapped his hands against his scalp, keeping his hair good and greasy. Keeping his disguise in place. "Never you fear, Reaves. Just keep an ear out for trouble . For Tucker."

Another single bark.

Another swipe of his tongue, and Reaver set himself to doze, with one ear cocked toward the night.

Susanna shifted rhythmically against Captain Tucker's broad chest. The damp scent of his wool great coat he'd insisted she wear rose up to tickle her nose. But this close to him, nothing could outshine his personal scent, the one that comforted and aroused in equal measure.

I will carry your secrets to my grave. Happily, will I shoulder them for you…

To have secured her complete confidence in him, and so swiftly? How did he manage that?

But he had it. Commanded her unwavering faith in him, even before he'd astonished her so, mere minutes ago, by confiding his own secrets in return…

"You have entrusted me with much," he'd told her when the confines of the carriage prevented her escape from the mortifying knowledge that Captain Tucker was no stranger to her brother. Nate, who would take her guilt upon his head the moment he learned how Mitchell had treated her. Who would, with vehemence, castigate himself, assume responsibilities for things that happened without his knowledge, and more often than not, occurred when he wasn't even on English soil. Nate would?—

"Susanna." The soothing way Leo had uttered her name paused the circuitous mental tirade.

She braved facing him, afraid of what she might see. Only to be met with yet another surprise from the brawny, mature seaman taking up his half of the carriage and then some.

"You have entrusted me with much," he repeated. "Shall I return the favor? Tell you why I am here, what I remained quiet on earlier? Myself and others are investigating the very crew that would have done you harm."

"Others?"

"Two men who are near at this time, who pretend, same as me."

Pretend? In secret? With disguises, mayhap?

"You pretend to be someone you are not?" To be able to hear? A vagabond sailor?

"We seek to gather information from those unsavories. To discern their next move or meeting. The tall one? The younger tall one, with all his teeth, he's with me."

The one who had forced his way into the already threatening circle? She wrote:

He is not a rotten lout? Squirrel Beard?

He laughed. "That is not far off, but Benton would be mortified to hear you describe him thus. Aye, he is on the side of right."

"Then why…"

"Why did he grab your bag, thrust himself in the middle? To keep another from doing worse."

"And the other who works alongside you both?"

"Not someone you have met." Which she deduced meant someone whose identity truly needed to remain concealed.

"And you feign hearing to avoid attention?" She spoke with care, over pronouncing, if that were a thing, repeating some syllables and phrases she thought might prove a challenge. Quickly writing others. He never exhibited impatience, no irritation, simply studied her mouth or her hands with focused intent, snaring quick glances at her eyes, making her more aware of herself—of her responses to him—than she could recall ever being with another. "Watch them from afar as they speak?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Because of the loud, forceful way you blustered your way through their circle to reach my side." He had barked and bellowed his claim to stave off challenges before they could be uttered.

A calculating light entered his gaze. As though he, too, recalled that moment. "I believe we need you to join our team. You are very astute."

"Were that the case I would not have bound myself to Mr. Mitchell."

"And had that not been the case, you might not be here with me now."

First the unexpected compliment (had anyone, ever, described her as astute ?), now words to console? "And I would not exchange this night for another, not even if offered all the regent's golden girdles." She winked at him.

"Does he have a girdle of gold?" Leo had reared back in mock shock, heart and lips alight with laughter, for all in the land had heard tales of the difficulty their eventual king experienced, being laced into his straining whale bone stays and girdle.

"I confess I have not seen that," he said, voice somber, belying the twinkle in his eyes.

For which I am quite relieved to learn, she'd written to his obvious delight.

And now they had ended up here, outside, two pair of his socks on her feet, covered by his huge slippers (routed from his haversack, only to keep her feet dry), with her wrapped in his great coat and held against his chest as he made his way through several inches of thick, fluffy snow working deeper into the woods.

While cold, 'twas not the blustery, blistery damp mire that had soaked the land through the last couple of days. The very stillness in the air, the moonlight sparkling off the pale, snowy scape, encurtained the two of them in their own private world. Were it not for the soft crunch of his boots as he trod through the snow—alternating betwixt regular forward paces and sliding, sidelong ones—and the sounds of his breaths, she could, almost, imagine the silence he endured so very stoically.

And here he carried her, without complaint, to what amounted a privy run? In this glistening, snowy oasis she never would have seen at night, much less savored the silence sufficiently to appreciate, for he'd cautioned they must remain quiet and alert.

Yet even that, knowing danger lurked beyond, could not dampen her delight with this moment. With this man.

Benevolent stars shone down beyond the moon's bright orbit, as though blessing this beautiful night so close to Christmas. As though blessing them, Susanna and her valiant savior of the day.

For once, sounds buffeted Leo, doused him from all sides, no matter that he needed to concentrate. On disguising his trail. On keeping her safe.

Yet his thoughts rat-a-tat-tat-tatted his garret. Can I keep her? Not only keep her safe, but keep her?

Right, you leatherhead, because after marriage to that miscreant Mitchell she'll want to be shackled to another.

His heart thump-pounded louder than ever, despite the minim of effort it took to carry her.

Blood rushed through his head like a river crashing over rocks, pulsing in time to the dance her fingers did, feathering through his hair at the back of his nape where she held to him.

Where her light touch damn near destroyed whatever composure he typically claimed.

Because sure as skit, he may have spoken first, but with every word exchanged between them, every look, every kiss, the lass now held sway over him. Claimed him, did she but know it. Him, Leopold Michael Tucker, who had thought to die alone and in silence (not for a few decades, but still)… He now wanted to fight for her. More than that, he needed what was best for her, and he wasn't yet convinced that meant him.

How did one young female bring so much sound and light into his world? A world where, for once, he wasn't on his own. And it wasn't just holding her that made it so.

It was all that had been shared between them since the moment her fiery spirit drew him forth. It was the way she tugged on his hair and stifled chuckles against his chest when he pretended to stumble and nearly drop her.

Then did it again several paces later, as he intentionally dragged his boots, shuffling sideways through the snow every bit as much as he took a few regular steps. Making a hash of his path, making it so easy to tease her, even as he reveled in her slight weight against his chest.

The way she lightly pinched his neck as though in silent admonishment and then caught his eye and winked before leaning in to kiss that very spot.

It was the way being with her recalled to mind how he'd conducted himself the first eight and thirty years of his life, before silence surrounded him and took him apart from everyone else. Stop blaming your hearing. Has she not shown you that removing yourself was, in effect, your choice?

A choice he could not regret, not given how 'twas his very choices that had brought him here, working with Farnsworth and the others, hoping to dismantle the degenerates smuggling not only French brandy but English flesh as well.

He turned a circle, glancing back the way he'd come, pleased to note the slightly circuitous route he'd taken also intersected with a deer or fox trail, creating a myriad prints and places where the snow had been disturbed, not making his route easily discernible.

And then on the return amble, after they had both, privately, tended to business and then together formed a snowball or two to throw (actually, that was all her; he had grinningly endured), after traversing not quite half the way back toward their destination, she pinched the flesh between his neck and shoulder hard . Stilled his feet instantly.

Put the rest of him on guard as he swallowed any protest. What was she trying to tell him?

Before he could ask, she shifted in his arms and tapped his opposite shoulder then held up two fingers in front of his face, pointed off to the side.

He tugged her higher, placed his lips at her ear, allowed only a wisp of sound to emerge. "You hear two people?"

It was a guess and an accurate one, her slight nod confirmed. "Coming closer?"

She gave a light shrug, but then clasped her full hand against the side of his neck and squeezed gently, a comforting, solid motion. "Stay here?"

Another light nod.

Then she held up a third finger. Three. So someone had joined them? A new voice? Was it the people he was after? Who else might you expect? Who else would be skulking about in the woods, closer to dawn than not?

Well, he was, for one; they were, for two.

And at least three others were near enough to hear? Dread tightened his muscles.

"Listen," he told her as softly as he dared, moving lips against her ear and praying nothing that could carry escaped. "Pay attention to their words. Should they approach, tap my cheek twice. And hold on." For at that point, he would either be fighting or fleeing.

Another nod. Her body had gone tense against his.

He heard his breath, maybe not with his ears, but with his head, heard the measured silence as he worked to keep his frustration and excitement under control.

It hadn't been that many breaths—somewhere between forty and sixty-four (he lost count twice)—when she clasped the side of his neck and used her thumb to turn his chin toward the carriage house.

"Are they moving?"

A nod.

Another, frantic nod, before he could ask anything more.

Damn. He wasn't sure wha t the gentle pressure on his jaw meant. Did she tell him to stay? Retreat? Or, damn it, to run?

"Stupid cur! Would have me some fun with those new loads if I ain't left my pistol inside."

More like if you knew how to shoot something other than your jaws.

Catching scent of his man beyond the clearing where the idiots chittered, Reaver baited the others the opposite direction. Finally! After hours of inactivity, he could go to work. Be useful. Pay for pilfering portions of pork and other pleasant sundries.

For unlike dinner, evil gave off a stench. One as nauseating as a decaying corpse, and though it clung not to all of the men with Haggart, on him? Haggart reeked of it. Likely bathed in?—

No. Wait. Given the stink that surrounded him, likely that sloven scavenger hadn't met bath water since months that didn't end in B-E-R.

" Brrr! Grrr! " Reaver gave a good, saliva-filled snarl, keeping his impressive tongue in check, so as to let his long, sharp teeth braggart a bit. Intimidate Haggart.

(Heh. Heh. Braggart Haggart.)

One of the men landed a booted kick near enough, Reaver let out a howl. Then rounded on him, all fang and growl that had two of them stumbling back. "Wait! Ain't that the cove's dog? Maybe they stayed after all. Looked for his horse, the one he whinged about this morn, but the stable was too dark to find my arse, much less someone else's nag."

"That dog? Thought he belonged to the inn." That was good old Benny Wrath. "Saw him out in the stables when I rode in."

More grunts. Definitely more grumbling. (Theirs.) A few more growls (his) and the laggards eventually dispersed. But not before both Reaver and his man's new lady heard a few choice bits…