Chapter Three

A s they sped through the freezing night toward Hampshire, Fenella was almost glad that Mr. Townsend gave her such good cause to dislike him. It helped to distract her from picturing what might happen to Brand and Carey. Every time she thought of her son alone and unprotected—and she couldn't think of much else—her stomach cramped with nausea.

Dear God, let Brand be safe.

At this hour, the roads were mostly empty, although farmers would soon be on their way into London with their produce. Winter hadn't yet stuck its claws into the year, but the wind whistling around her ears as they plunged through the night promised frosts ahead. With every shiver, she prayed that the boys were somewhere safe and warm.

Fenella wasn't by nature a sullen woman. Pique didn't come easily. With every mile they covered, the distance between her and her monumental companion became increasingly awkward.

Not, alas, the physical distance.

Mr. Townsend was such a…substantial figure that the cramped seat crushed her up against him, closer than she'd been to any man since Henry's death. Inevitably, as their bodies rubbed together in the jolting carriage, his radiating heat and the clean, salty scent of his skin became part of her landscape. She could believe that he'd docked today. He smelled like the sea.

He didn't smell like a villain and a bully. He smelled like a healthy male in his prime, and much as she fought it, that evocative scent reminded Fenella how she'd missed a man's physical presence over the last lonely years. After Henry's death, she'd missed his cheerfulness and unwavering devotion. She'd missed sharing her joys and sorrows with him. She'd missed his love.

But her proximity to Mr. Townsend was an uncomfortable reminder that she'd missed Henry's body, too. Not just the act of love—although she'd woken from countless sensual dreams to the aching realization that Henry Deerham lay in the grave's eternal embrace—but the pleasures of having a man about the place. Masterful, direct Anthony Townsend couldn't be more different from laughing, goodhearted Henry Deerham, but despite her antipathy, tonight's journey stirred senses long dormant.

She mightn't like Mr. Townsend. In fact, she was convinced she didn't. But plastered to his side, she was inescapably aware of his overpowering masculinity. And that made her ashamed. She'd been a good and faithful wife to Henry. Thinking of another man in…those terms made her feel like she broke his trust.

True to his word, when Mr. Townsend stopped to change horses, he waited only long enough for the ostlers to hitch up the new team before he set off once again. Fenella felt him silently daring her to complain, but she made no request for a delay. He misunderstood her if he imagined she meant to impede this desperate hunt.

More biting cold and breathtaking speed, and gradually her reasonable side gained the upper hand. Resentment became less satisfying by the minute. While Mr. Townsend's comment had been unfortunate, he'd been half out of his mind with worry about Carey. And perhaps there was a shred of truth in what he'd said, much as she loathed admitting it. Since Henry's death, she and Brand had depended so closely on each other.

She was on the verge of saying something inane about the weather, if only to ease the bristling atmosphere, when Mr. Townsend spoke for what felt like the first time in hours. “We're lucky with the full moon.”

“Yes.”

For the life of her, she couldn't think of anything to add. She fidgeted with the rug he'd pushed at her when they started out. His care for her comfort had surprised her when he'd been so set on leaving her behind.

As they covered another mile without speaking, she sensed his disappointment at her lack of response. So far, she'd avoided looking at him. Not because she was angry—by now, she was over her huff—but because staring at him intensified that unacceptable female awareness. Now she couldn't help snatching a quick glimpse at his set, angular features. He looked hard and purposeful, as she'd come to expect, but also discouraged.

Hours of travel on an icy night stretched ahead. She should say something, if only to break this prickly silence. They had the boys in common, but she flinched from inviting more criticism.

She was at the point of asking how far they had to go to his estate when he spoke again. “I'm sorry, Lady Deerham. I have no right to judge the way you raise your son. It's none of my business.”

To her surprise, instead of graciously accepting the apology, she found herself explaining. “You weren't entirely wrong. I did coddle Brandon after Henry died at Waterloo. I couldn't help it.”

“You must have loved your husband very much.”

“I do. I always will.” She stared sightlessly over the horses' ears to the road winding between the fields. Thick hedges rose on either side, creating an illusion of intimacy. “I hope—I know —since then I've always acted in my son's best interests, despite my instincts to keep him close and safe beside me. You have no idea how difficult it was to send Brand to school, but he needed some masculine influence.”

“Now the school hasn't proven the safe haven you'd hoped.”

“No.”

“Tragedy can strike anywhere,” he said softly. “Look at William and Jenny. A storm out of nowhere on the loveliest day in summer.”

Fenella gripped her gloved hands together in her lap. She was physically weary, but too keyed up to sleep. Her mind was in such turmoil, she felt as alert and on edge as a mouse in a cat club. Strangely, despite their short but rocky relationship, talking to Mr. Townsend kept her from falling victim to phantom horrors. Something about him inspired confidence. His strength and solidity perhaps. More likely his self-assurance.

“Were you close to your brother?”

“Aye.”

Again, Fenella recognized the sorrow beneath the clipped response. “Perhaps that's why Carey and Brandon so swiftly became friends—they both lost people they love.”

Mr. Townsend sighed. “Brandon has you. Poor Carey drew the short straw when he was left in my care.”

His bitterness surprised her. “You don't mean that.”

His lips twisted in self-derision. “Don't I?”

“You obviously love the boy. When you burst into my house, you were beside yourself with fear. And as your ward, he'll never want for anything.”

“Anything material, at least. If they're to thrive, children need more than food in their bellies and somewhere to sleep.”

“But he must know you love him. I picked it up immediately, even through the bluster.”

“Perhaps I should bluster at him more often so he understands,” Mr. Townsend said dourly.

She bit back her impatient response that if his guardian just told Carey that he loved him, the problem would disappear. Living with a husband and a son had taught her that males preferred to sidestep direct declarations of feeling, however useful they might be.

“Then you just have to try harder to show him that you love him,” she said calmly. “For a start, you could spend more time together.”

Surprised dark eyes left the road to focus on her. “You don't mince your words.”

She shrugged. “You're the adult. It's up to you to find some way through this.”

He gave a grunt of amusement. “For a woman who looks likely to snap in a gentle breeze, you punch above your weight, Lady Deerham.”

His compliment, backhanded as it was, pleased her. All her life, people—men—had told her she was pretty. Very few had remarked on her strength.

This time when they changed horses, Mr. Townsend stepped down from the carriage and came around to offer her a hand. “We'll have something to eat.”

“I'd rather keep going.”

Was that admiration glinting in his eyes? Her heart kicked, before she reminded herself she had more important things to worry about than Mr. Townsend's opinion of her. “Ten minutes for a hot drink and some bread and cheese won't hurt.”

“Ten? I thought the limit was five.”

His face remained perfectly straight as he assisted her to alight into a yard bustling with men and horses. “I'm feeling generous.”

Fenella dipped her head as she entered the crowded hostelry on Mr. Townsend's arm. Someone making a late return from the Ascot races might recognize her. But nobody paid any attention to the well-dressed couple. As they stepped inside, Mr. Townsend murmured to the landlord, and she found herself in a private parlor, small and cozy with a roaring fire.

“I'll check the horses. Sit down and warm up. I won't be long.”

“Thank you,”she said, crossing the room to stand before the fire. She sucked in a breath, relieved that she was no longer crushed up against Mr. Townsend. She couldn't blame him for that insidious proximity. She'd insisted on coming. But it was much easier to remember she was a widow with a child and not a giddy girl when he stood safely on the other side of the room.

She stripped off her gloves and extended bare hands toward the flames. The heat set the blood in her chilled fingers tingling.

When the door opened behind her, she didn't look around.

Until a man who wasn't Mr. Townsend addressed her in the slurred tones of the deeply inebriated.

* * *

As Anthony turned into the short corridor leading to the parlor, some drunken ass ahead of him let out a triumphant bray of laughter. Alarm tightened his gut. Hell, he'd only been away a few minutes.

He lengthened his stride and careered round the corner to hear some tipsy, extravagantly dressed coxcomb announce, “Well, what do we have here? A pretty yella-haired strumpet looking for company. I've had the devil's luck today, boys.”

The well-bred imbecile stood between two equally gormless companions who craned past him to see into the room where Anthony had left Lady Deerham.

Everything inside Anthony's head turned red. He barged up to the trio and shoved them out of the way. How dare anyone accost Fenella? Couldn't they see that she was his?

That thought jolted him into pausing before he started flinging his fists around and creating bloody mayhem.

“I'll say this once, then the trouble's on you,” he grated out, battling the impulse to thump the idiots into oblivion anyway. “Go back to the taproom now.”

One glance at Anthony and the two offsiders edged away on unsteady legs. “Your pardon, sir. A mistake. No offense meant,” one bleated.

Their vocal friend swayed on the spot. Too far gone in his cups to see the danger, he leveled a bleary gaze at Anthony. “Demme, you're a dashed big 'un.”

He was young. All three were. Barely twenty, if he reckoned aright. But after sailing the world, Anthony was regrettably familiar with the trouble even very young men could cause. His aggressive stance didn't relax. “I won't ask again.”

The young man raised a shaky quizzing glass to his eye, then, recklessly, directed his inspection into the room. His lustful smile told its own story. “The doxy's a prime article. I'll give you a thousand guineas for her.”

Before Anthony could pulverize the upstart, clear laughter rang out from inside the room. “My husband may just take you up on that, sir. But in the meantime, why don't you go and sleep it off?”

Astonishment kept Anthony's fists by his sides. Fenella's courage should no longer catch him unawares, but still she took his breath away. The lout was right—she was a prime article.

At the sound of Lady Deerham's unmistakably upper-class voice, the youth flushed blotchy red and backed away from the door. He cast a quick glance at Anthony and this time, he took in how much muscle threatened to obliterate him. “Your pardon. I saw the ladybird…uh, the lady on her own, and I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” Anthony said wearily. “Leave the ladies be, at least until you can see straight.”

The lad bowed and retreated after his friends with much haste and no dignity.

Anthony sighed and entered the room. “Husband?”

To his surprise, the heroine of the hour blushed. “It was the best I could think of at the time.”

“I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have left you.”

Even more surprising, her smile glowed with open approval. “You came to my rescue.”

His heart performed a strange skipping dance, and his mind went flying out of the room. He blinked at her and told himself that he was too old to fall victim to a pretty wench's smile.

And didn't believe a word of it.

To hide his confusion, he turned to close the door. “You were perfectly capable of handling that silly bit of wet string.”

“Perhaps.” She sat at the small table with a grace that set his wayward heart capering again. What in God's name was wrong with him? “It turned out I didn't have to. Thank you.”

He sat opposite her. “On second thought, a thousand guineas is a lot of money.”

“Perhaps you should check if the offer's still open,” she said tranquilly. “It would save you hauling me all the way to Hampshire.”

She was magnificent—and not just because she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. He had no doubt that she was still deathly afraid for her son. And having strange men accost them in a public house would give most ladies the vapors. But she glided through it all with perfect composure.

In London, he'd resigned himself to putting up with a delicate female who found rough travel insupportable. But she'd been as game as a terrier the whole way and hadn't complained once. Even when that inebriated oaf had marched in on her.

A thousand guineas? Ten thousand wouldn't do her justice.

Either he needed to revisit his opinion of upper-class women as basically useless. Or Fenella Deerham was a glorious exception to the rule.

“Actually you haven't been much trouble,” he said gruffly. “I might let the lad keep his winnings, instead of spending them on wild women like you.”

She was still smiling and his heart returned to cavorting in a most disconcerting manner. “My hero.”

The arrival of two mugs of steaming beef tea and a meat pie saved Anthony from responding to her dry remark. But some previously unknown corner of his soul turned romantic and yearned to believe that she meant it.

Which was the most worrying thing of all.