Chapter Four

Thankfully, the fire didn't continue to rage, and Mercy couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief once she was no longer afraid it might burn the whole inn down with them in it.

Their dinner, when it finally arrived, consisted of a bowl containing what the serving girl described as, ‘ cock wi gin .' For once the Reverend appeared lost for words while Agnes immediately began rummaging in her reticule for her salts. Looking down at her plate, Mercy simply hoped it was chicken swimming in the dark gravy.

Despite the unpromising start however, the food turned out to be surprisingly tasty and before long all three of them were tucking in happily. A few minutes later, the innkeeper himself came in with their drinks, and Agnes benevolently pronounced the sherry passable using the nasally twang she typically reserved for tradesmen and Percy Noon's mother, Mary.

Mercy was just contemplating whether a hunk of bread to mop up the juices would be too unladylike, when, without warning, the door was pushed open again. Looking up in surprise, any other retort she might have made died in her throat. It was the scarred man she'd seen from the window. Her heart thudded with a mixture of fear and … something else, but before she had the chance to examine it, Flossy caught sight of the small terrier at the man's heels and set up a cacophony of barking.

To her alarm, the man ordered his dog inside and promptly shut the door while Reverend Shackleford hurriedly tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. ‘What the devil do you think you're doing?' he blustered.

The man stepped forward, holding out his hands in an unmistakeable gesture of conciliation. ‘Before you shout for help, I beg you to listen.' His voice was unquestionably cultured, but as he stepped into the candlelight, the shadows made his face look almost demonic. A second later, Agnes gave a small moan before sliding slowly off her chair, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

‘Grandmama!' Mercy gasped, jumping up and hurrying round to the matron. Raising her skirt, she got onto her hands and knees, completely forgetting about the man for a moment.

After a few seconds, Agnes's eyes fluttered open. ‘Salts,' she croaked, raising a limp hand.

‘Here they are, my dove.' For a second, Mercy wondered who the Reverand was talking to until the small bottle was held out in front of her.

Taking it from him, she held it near to the matron's nose, wafting it gently.

‘Thunder an' turf, even Flossy wouldn't smell that,' the Reverend declared after a second. ‘Here, give it to me.' Laboriously he got down onto the floor as Mercy obligingly handed him the bottle and sat back on her heels to give him room, only to watch incredulously as he practically stuffed the bottle up his wife's nose. However, it appeared to do the trick and after a couple of seconds, Agnes came round enough to ask if there was any more sherry.

Relieved, Mercy helped the Reverend get the matron back into her chair, suddenly catching sight of the reason Agnes had fainted in the first place. For a few seconds, she'd forgotten he was there. To her surprise, Flossy had ceased her barking and was now busy getting acquainted with the newcomers. The little dog could usually be relied upon to determine whether a stranger was trustworthy or not, and the fact that she was busy capering around the man's ankles automatically lessoned Mercy's fear. Evidently, it had the same effect on the Reverend who seemed content to leave her to deal with the stranger as he gave Agnes the remnants of her sherry.

‘Who are you?' Mercy asked him, pleased to note that her voice was only wobbling a little.

‘Nathaniel Harding, at your service, my lady.' He took off his hat and gave a small inclination of his head.

‘And do you make a habit of sneaking into private dining rooms, Mr. Harding?'

He gave a rueful smile, and for some reason, even though the scar twisted his lips, Mercy's heart thudded - and not in fear. ‘I've come here to tell you that I believe someone at the inn means you harm.'

His voice was pleasantly deep with a rich timbre. Almost soporific. ‘But that someone is not you?' she questioned, raising her eyebrows.

He shook his head impatiently. ‘I implore you to listen to what I have to say, my lady.' He turned his attention to encompass the Reverend and a now frowning Agnes, ‘I truly believe that all three of you are in grave danger.' Taking a deep breath, he told them what he'd overheard in the stable. ‘I have no way of knowing for sure that you are their intended victim,' he finished, turning back to Mercy, ‘but to my knowledge, there's no other young lady staying here in the company of a priest.'

There was a disbelieving silence until the Reverend growled, ‘I'm a vicar, not a priest.'

‘And you say this man means to abduct me with the aim of forcing me into wedlock? With him presumably?'

Nate nodded his head, wondering at her continued composure – in his experience, most women would, at the very least, have burst into tears. ‘It sounds preposterous, but I can assure you that's exactly what I overheard.' He turned to the Reverend. ‘I believe he meant it when he said he would leave no witnesses.'

‘But why me?' Mercy quizzed. ‘I mean, what could he possibly hope to gain?'

Nate shrugged. ‘I have no idea, I presumed he was a fortune hunter. In truth, I don't even know what he looks like, though I don't think he was English. His accent sounded like he was from the Americas.'

‘Tare an' hounds, I think I actually spoke to him,' the Reverend interjected suddenly. ‘A suspicious looking individual approached me in the bar earlier. Asked about marrying some young lady without her parent's consent. I thought it all sounded deuced havey-cavey and told him in no uncertain terms that I'd never conduct a clandestine wedding.' He shook his head and gave a grimace. ‘I had to hold Flossy back. I'd no deuced idea he was talking about you, Mercedes.'

‘What did he look like?' Nate asked urgently.

‘Swarthy – very foreign looking. Said his name was Oliver Reinhardt, but if he's the blackguard after Mercy, I doubt that's his real name.' The Reverend paused. ‘As you said, he had an American accent.'

‘I take it you'd remember him if you ever saw him again?' Nate asked grimly.

Reverend Shackleford nodded. ‘He had a face one was unlikely to forget easily – a bit like yours really.'

‘Grandfather!' Mercy spluttered.

‘He had a scar you mean?' Nate interrupted, seemingly unoffended.

The Reverend nodded again. ‘Not nearly as bad as yours though. Looked as though he'd had it a long time. It was across his forehead and mostly covered by his hair. I only saw it as he got up to leave.'

Nate nodded. ‘Being able to recognise your adversary is half the battle.'

‘That as may be,' the Reverend acknowledged, ‘but exactly what would you have us do? We can hardly run in the middle of the night.'

‘That's exactly what I believe you should do,' Nate returned, ignoring the three incredulous stares. ‘Quietly and in secret. This Reinhardt - if indeed that's his name - and his cohorts will not be looking for you until the morning. By then, you could be away from here and safe.'

‘And what about the carriage, and my clothes?'

Agnes's voice was shrill, and she was waving her salts around as though she was about to fall off the chair again any second. Clearly, Nate thought, she didn't share the younger woman's fortitude.

‘And where would we go?' Mercy demanded. ‘I am hardly dressed for a hike in the snow. We'd likely freeze to death before we find shelter.'

Nate shut his eyes for a second, deliberating how to phrase his proposed solution without being summarily dismissed. In the end, he simply shrugged and said, ‘My house is close. I could take you there until the danger has passed.'

‘Are you addled?' the Reverend scoffed. ‘Do you really think we are bottle headed enough to abandon all our belongings and accompany you to your house in the middle of the night?'

Nate gave the clergyman a level stare. ‘It matters not to me,' he said at length. ‘Accept my offer of help or don't. It's not my life that's in danger. Should you decide to remain here, I will simply return to the stable and bed down with my horse for the night.' He gave a shrug. ‘Take your chances tomorrow, Sir, if that's what you prefer to do.'

‘How do we know you won't simply rob us and leave us for dead?' Mercy pressed.

‘You don't,' was his short answer. ‘But if you recall, I suggested you leave your belongings.'

‘You may have an accomplice ready and waiting to go through our things,' Agnes protested.

‘I might,' Nate returned, ‘but I don't know anything about you, including which bedchambers you are sleeping in.'

‘So you say,' Agnes retorted darkly.

Nate ran his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘We are running out of time,' he bit out. ‘I repeat, it is of no moment to me whether you stay here or come with me. I'm not exactly relishing the thought of a midnight stroll in the snow.'

‘I thought you said you had a horse?' Mercy quizzed.

‘She took a stone to her shoe earlier today. That's why I'm here. She will be rested enough to get home, but not to ride.'

‘How far is your house?'

‘I estimate it will probably take us an hour if we keep up a reasonable pace.'

‘We have two coach drivers and three footmen attending us. What do we tell them?' Mercy pressed.

Nate raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you always travel in such numbers?'

‘We have just returned from Scotland. They are for our protection.'

‘Exactly,' the Reverend declared triumphantly. ‘Our protection . I'm certain they'll be more than a match for a bunch of murdering guttersnipes.'

There was a pause, then Nate sighed. ‘So, you've made your decision then?'

‘We have,' the Reverend answered firmly.

Nate nodded slowly. ‘Very well. Tell your protectors the varmints intend to wait in a copse of trees on the other side of Corsham. I assume that is your direction?'

Mercy nodded uncertainly.

‘Mayhap we'll take another route,' the Reverend announced defensively.

‘I'm not sure it will make a difference. They will be watching for your rising,' Nate answered. ‘I overheard the man telling his accomplice to meet outside the stables at dawn.'

‘Will you still be here at that time?' Mercy asked hesitantly.

‘I will be here until just before dawn. I want to get Duchess to the comfort of her own stable as soon as possible…' He paused, and for a second, Mercy thought he was about to add something significant, but in the end, all he said was, ‘I wish you all Godspeed.'

Then, replacing his hat, he tapped his thigh to summon his dog, who was curled up by the fire with Flossy, and seconds later he was gone.

***

Mercedes turned over and thumped at her pillow as sleep continued to elude her. Indeed, she didn't think she'd ever felt more awake in her life. The events of the evening kept going round and round in her head until she thought she would scream.

Despite the gravity of his message, all Mercy could think about was him . Nathaniel Harding. As soon as he left the room, she'd felt bereft, as though she'd lost something incredibly important. She realised that after his initial entrance, she'd stopped seeing the scar on his face entirely - and just thinking about the rich timbre of his voice unaccountably made her squirm.

She understood the Reverend's mistrust. What did they know of him really? But for some reason, Mercy would willingly have trusted him with her life. She would have gone with him without a backward glance.

But she couldn't argue with her step-grandfather's logic - he was responsible for her. And whilst the idea of Augustus Shackleford being responsible for anything or anyone other than himself would have most of his offspring falling over laughing, the truth was, he'd taken his duty to her seriously. At least on the journey there and back at any rate. While at Caerlaverock she could have fallen into the loch or been abducted by a dozen would-be ravishers, and he wouldn't have known about it until dinner.

Mercy sighed in the dark. As the Reverend had said, ‘Forewarned is forearmed.' Now that they knew about a potential attack, they could take the appropriate steps. And the footmen accompanying them were retired sailors recruited and trained by the Duke of Blackmore specifically to provide protection on long journeys. They would know exactly what to do.

Determinedly, she turned over onto her side and closed her eyes. It would do no good to lie awake all night.

Seconds later, she was on her back again. It was her presence that was putting everyone in danger. If she wasn't there, and the blackguard who had designs on her knew it, he would leave her companions alone. She sat up, forcing down the sudden spurt of terror at being the actual target of a kidnapping attempt. What if she went into hiding with Nathaniel Harding?

On her own?

Swallowing, she climbed out of bed and hurried to the window. How long was it before dawn? She felt as though she'd been tossing and turning for hours, but the full moon told her it was likely a couple of hours yet to sunrise. She sat down on the edge of the bed. The sensible part of her knew her idea was completely totty-headed. Mercedes did not have the recklessness of the rest of the Shackleford family – which wasn't entirely surprising since they weren't actually her blood relatives. Indeed, her insistence on visiting Jennifer was the first time she and her father had really had an altercation.

That dispute, however, had served to prove that she wasn't completely immune to the general wildness exhibited by her adopted family, and was perfectly capable of digging her heels in when the mood took her - though, it had to be said her father hadn't seemed quite so thrilled by the abrupt appearance of such a Shackleford trait…

Mercy nibbled anxiously at her fingernails. She could leave a note for her step-grandparents explaining her reasoning. Granted, as soon as her father read it, he might well throw his father-in-law out on his ear, but better that than attending the clergyman's funeral.

She forced down another surge of fear. Could Mr. Harding be trusted? What if she was jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Then she thought of Flossy's reaction to him. She had never known the little dog to be wrong in her assessment of people. Never.

And Flossy had trusted him.

Without giving herself further to time to dither, Mercy hurriedly took off her nightgown and put on her warmest day dress. Fortunately, she'd taken her sensible boots to Scotland in anticipation of getting plenty of exercise. Then she made up a small bag of essentials, reasoning that either Mr. Harding or his horse would be able to carry it. It was unlikely she'd have to remain in hiding for long – simply long enough for the Reverend to get to Cottesmore. She had no doubt her father would tear the countryside apart to find her.

Finally, after writing a quick note to her grandfather, she picked up her cloak, and tiptoed to the door, only to pause before she turned the knob.

Was Mr. Harding married? He hadn't mentioned a wife, and somehow, she couldn't imagine him leg shackled – he appeared too … solitary. And then there was the scar.

So, what about a chaperone? Mercy frowned, hesitating on the threshold. Did he have servants? Then she took herself to task. What the deuce was she doing, worrying about proprieties when people's lives were in danger? Only her closest family and Mr. Harding himself would ever know that she stayed there, and it wouldn't be for long – perhaps two days at the most. She pursed her lips and pulled open the door.

Seconds later she was creeping down the stairs and along the passageway in the direction of the stables.