6. Confront the Rudesby?

6

CONFRONT THE RUDESBY?

The absence of rain spitting upon the mud-slicked ground; the suck and squelch of his boots beating a hasty retreat against the same. The steady snarl the dog emitted when strangers came too close (or when Leo ordered the dog to stay behind). The lass's litany of language—likely not too foul—directed his way.

He may not have heard any of them, but he knew, sure as certain, every one buffeted his blind ears.

Sneaking out the stable from the saddle room, not in sight of the tavern and refusing to acknowledge how good her small hand felt tucked within his, if still dreadfully cold, Leo led her toward the old, abandoned carriage house as quickly as he dared over the slippery terrain. No sense lingering.

He barely acknowledged the fluffy flakes that now swirled about, keeping his attention focused beyond their narrow path. Ensuring no one took note of their destination.

His gab with Ol' Mikey proved valuable. Leo had secured their safe—albeit unusual—accommodations for tonight. A jug of ale. Some nuts and a thick, aromatic meat pasty. Best of all? A lantern.

But when he returned, though not excessive time had lapsed, his wildflower had wilted. Propped up by the railing, the little lady blinked wildly, fighting to keep her eyes open. Nelson Rambler already returned to her corner, slumbering more steadily on her feet (hooves) than his "guest" for the night, as the female he sought to protect fair wavered on her feet (no hooves in sight beneath the mucked dress).

"Long day of travel?" he had greeted.

Another yawn, a single nod. A shy smile, as her gaze dropped to his lips.

Shy. Because they'd kissed.

Absurdly, that made him smile. He held up his booty. "I dare not lay these down or the mice will march forth. Follow me and I shall see you undangered for the night."

He wanted to do so much more—pick her up, carry her again. Ask fifty or more questions. Dance with her in the newly falling snow?—

Addle-pate.

You dance about as well as Nelson back there.

Upon leaving the stable with her newly appointed provider, Susanna saw that the rain and sleet had shifted into snow which she took as a good thing. Mayhap the fury of the storm had blown through and would calm overnight. Would permit the repairs tomorrow that would see her safely on her way.

And your intriguing rescuer as well? She rubbed her no-longer-frozen fingers against the warmth of his. See you both off in different directions? What then?

She couldn't stop her sigh of regret.

No need to feel the least bit cheated. The least saddened, silly goose, she consoled herself. For then, would you not have the recollection of adventure craved?

That thought, aided by the enticing, salivary scents of cooked meat spiced to perfection perked her up more than a full night's sleep. Susanna squeezed the hand wrapped securely about hers as her energized steps shadowed his through the falling snow, out behind the stable and onto a less traveled path. The lantern he held illuminated the slightly overgrown road that led to a smaller, much more disreputable, rough-planked building. Mayhap the original homestead or barn? Before the inn opened?

She looked behind them and saw no four-footed straggler. "What of Reaver?" Nothing.

She refused to vent her frustration at his continued rudeness. Why, if he kept this up, perhaps she would decide she did not like his kiss after all. Wasn't oft running her tongue against the back of her teeth, tasting him still…

Dare she confront his uncivil behavior?

Or should she swallow her protests and retreat as soon as he delivered her to their destination?

Did you not stifle your protests these last years? Retreat any time Mitchell returned home, soused or accompanied by his contemptible cronies?

Aye, and I promised myself freedom henceforth.

"Your dog ," she prompted, giving vent to her ire. "The one you belong to, or have you forgotten him already, along with your manners?"

After bolting the heavy door, fortifying them inside, Leo placed the lantern and food on an old trunk. Quickly, he dispatched the tarpaulin. While he worked, moving around the grand carriage, stretching to reach everything, he imagined her gasp of amazement (because that's how he had responded upon first seeing this beauty).

After folding the tarred canvas and tucking it out of the way, he lowered the carriage steps and turned, his arm outstretched to hand her up.

No simple gasp here. His lady gawped . Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, bedraggled bonnet and all. Looking adorably young. Devastatingly appealing. Imminently friskable. "Your carriage for the night, milady."

"We—we cannot…" She gestured, hands windmilling. "There!"

"Aye, we can. This is the very fine equipage of a friend. I swear to you that we may use it tonight, a safe place to sleep. Nothing more."

Her face did not just fall at that. Did it? Nay, for she could not, had not… Didn't think he expected more?

After that kiss, you can lie to yourself thus?

Brimstone would be too good for him if he attributed desires to her she had not, only because he wished them so.

Fervently did he wish them.

"Friend?" Her look said she disbelieved that claim. "…certain?"

"I am. Up you go, now… There." He pointed to the far side of the shadowy bench where he'd aimed her. "Beneath that seat, off to the right, there's a chamber pot. Make use of it and I shall return shortly to see it emptied. Then you may sleep without disturbance… No?"

For she was shaking her head with enough force to dislodge some brain matter. She said something he could not make out, not with her in the darkened interior.

"'Tis all right," he attempted to comfort, hoping he wasn't making a hash of her protest as he retrieved the lantern, trying to illuminate her evening accommodations. "I have sisters. No need for any embarrassment?—"

She thrust her head out—the bonnet already gone, leaving the drying straggles of her glorious black mane to tempt his fingers. "Where are you…"

"Where am I sleeping?" he hazarded when she paused.

She nodded. Frowned when he hesitated, so he tried again. "Right here, of course."

He pointed to the area in front of the carriage.

It wasn't overly crowded in here, even given the size of the majestic carriage, as it was the only item, aside from the trunk, on the dirt floor. The loft above, now? That was a stash and more, decades' worth of accumulation. But down here, the impressive carriage took up all but a few feet around on three sides, and then there was the five feet or so of space along the narrow edge that made up the door. If he shoved the trunk over?—

Something prickled his back, and he glanced over to find her talking again. "You can relax your guard." He gestured her back inside. "Sleep."

She only stared, a slight pinch between her brows.

Said something too fast.

So he tried again. Pointing to the open ground, between the carriage steps and wall, he repeated. "I shall sleep out here. You… You are exhausted."

Are you attempting to convince her or yourself?

The lass is willing to entertain more between you. Do not be a fool.

He'd be a fool to imagine—or want—anything more than the kisses already granted. "Take off your wet clothing, will you? I will leave you in peace." Damn me. "You may retire in comfort."

A few moments prior…

Susanna blinked. Tried not to swoon.

The carriage being revealed before her, hidden away beneath tattered canvas blankets (and possibly an old sails?) looked like something the prince regent would jaunt about London in—if he could fit through the doorway and gain entrance, that was.

She turned astonished eyes to her companion who was busy folding the coverings. "Are you cracked in the head? We cannot make use of this, not unless we want to dangle from a hangman's noose upon being discovered here. In there!"

Once again, he ignored her, only opened the narrow door, its edge surrounded by some of the most detailed, intricate carpentership she had ever seen, and then let down the steps and gestured her inside.

"'Tis wrong, claiming this for the night." She was adamant. "What if the owner returns?"

Of course, widgeon, because on a night like tonight, everyone is eager to have the horses slip into a ditch.

While she indulged in fanciful wool-gathering (What might it be like to travel, to sleep in such a thing? Had she, ever, seen a carriage so splendiferous?), he dared assert this was the coach of a friend.

"A friend? Ha! As if I am befuddled enough to believe that! Convince me, if you dare. For until you do, I shall not believe another word."

"Up you go now," he said, not answering her concerns. He held the lantern aloft, illuminating the interior she could not help but approach.

She might think what they were doing was wrong, be apprehensive over reprisals, but other than binding her life with Mr. Mitchell's, Susanna had never considered herself foolhardy. Oh no, what would you call this adventure?

Opportunity. And she wasn't about to ignore a chance to experience such a majestic coach, if only for a few moments.

Afraid to sit, to besmirch the velvety interior with her dirty dress, she knelt on her knees, betwixt the two long benches on either side of the door and gazed in wonder as she worked the knotted ribbon of her bonnet free.

Gleaming mahogany (possibly rosewood—she didn't really know her woods) framed the corners and rooftop; thick velvet upholstery covering everything, walls and seats, in a beautiful greyish mauve known as stone (recognized from an old copy of La Belle Assemblée she'd perused with her nieces shortly before they'd concocted the scheme that ended up finding their father, and her brother, his new wife).

Why, the trampled way the building itself looked, not to mention the thick, raggedy coverings he'd gathered, one would think the carriage would possess an air of neglect, but nothing of the sort. The dark, reddish wood shone. Even the pliable leather window coverings tied down tight, to inhibit dust and dirt during travel, looked new and had not loosened from their moorings.

She listened half-heartedly as he told her of the chamber pot, offered to empty it.

"You, sir, are totally cracked if you think I am soiling a chamber pot in here. A veritable loon, you are!" She laughed and shook her head at him before turning back to continue her awed perusal wherever the lantern alit.

Pull-out drawers with golden knobs had been built beneath the squabs. If she couldn't lie full out across one side, surely she could on a slight diagonal, the plush seating so very deep.

And when she gained her feet, sodden skirts be damned, for she needed to test the height, she could nearly stand upright! Only needed the slightest of bend to her knees or neck to avoid bumping her head. And oh my, she put her hand over her head, palm up, dirty or no she had to test the soft cushion above. My, oh my. No bumping anything hard in here.

She couldn't stop her excited squeal. "This is a veritable plush palace you have brought me to!"

She turned to face the man who had shown her such wonders, standing there with a look of consternation on his face, one she quickly sought to wipe free. "This is, I vow, the most unique, amazing, ripping, sparkish carriage or coach I have ever, ever had the fortune to behold. Thank you for this! Now really, where are we sleeping for the night?"

Ducked just inside, she aimed her eyes upward, past the carriage's roof, and indicated the loft above. "Up there?" It looked woefully packed with things. Old things. Bits and pieces of chairs, scraps of lumber, untold crates and more, all stacked higgledy-piggledy. But mayhap…mayhap there was room? "Is that where you have been bedding down?"

Then she looked back to him. "Or shall we just make a pallet down here?" She pointed to the ground. "This would be fine for me."

Fine? When not fifteen minutes ago you were clear frozen through!

Pah. She didn't notice the chill from her dress anymore, not since he'd taken up her hand and brought her here .

While the building itself might appear more disreputable than most, the few windows having long since been boarded over or blackened by years of weather (and lack of scrubbing she easily surmised), the inside proved as neat as any outbuilding she had entered. Someone took care of things here. Which meant someone would be returning to find them.

"Take off your wet clothing, retire in comfort."

"Comfort?" she asked incredulously. "What would you have me do? Be stript to skin when we are discovered? Exchange one wet dress for another? Everything in my bag is soaked clear through." She knew because she had checked when he and his dog had gone to speak with the stable master.

But the wretch ignored her protest, only encouraged her back inside. "I will protect you through the night. Sleep now."

"Arghhh!" she cried, frustration finally having its way with her. "Why do you keep doing that? I do not believe you to be rude, but you keep proving me wrong. There are things I would rather do than sleep. Like eat." And other things too, but she wouldn't—or couldn't—say more out loud. Not yet. "That is beef I smell, dinner you procured?"

Why did he persist in ignoring her? Try to shuffle her off to Nod, then stare at her so raptly? As though he would commit her features to memory. The way in which he waxed and waned, from considerate and kind to abrupt and not even civil? It made no sense at all to her storm-sluggard brain.

One moment he was comforting her, the next turning to shove the trunk in front of the already bolted door—and giving no indication he heard her question.

His tousled, overly long hair fell over his ear, hiding his face, when he knelt, to tuck the coverings inside.

As she thought back to his speech, her aggravation with him eased. Had not his every word to her been an even, steady husk? The deep syllables careful in volume? Every single thing since his bellowed claim…

"What is your name?" she called out.

Nothing.

She clapped twice.

Nothing again.

"Snake!"

No surprise—no response.

Pushing off from the narrow doorway, she jumped from the coach, startled him when she landed—for he swung back to face her, body tensed as though ready to defend—or attack?

He had not heard her. But he'd felt her land. Sensed it, either through his feet or from the slight whoomph of air.

"What? What is it?" His eyes darted around them—seeking danger? Surveying their quiet surroundings, before focusing back on her with every bit of the intensity he'd shown each time he'd faced her. "Did you hear something?"

"Nay, I did not." She spoke clearly, slower than she usually did. "And nor did you, I wager."

He only frowned, the horizontal grooves in his brow furrowing when he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Can you hear me? At all?"

A wave of relief—and regret—rolled over those strong, compelling features.

A sharp shake of his head. A definite scowl to his lips. A tinge of embarrassment entering his eyes and she knew . Knew with utter certainty.

"Oh, you dear man."