Page 8

Catherine was exhausted, her head throbbing, as the carriage drew up before the inn.

Only a day’s journey left! At that moment, however, she wanted nothing so much as a little refreshment and a chance to rest on something that did not sway and jolt.

She entered the inn dazed, with Maureen Dawes and Bethie Callahan close behind, leaving Dawes and Tom Coachman to look after the horses.

Her impression of the hostelry was one of cozy warmth and cleanliness.

As tired as she was, she failed to notice the three inebriated gentlemen lounging just inside the taproom as the slightly rotund innkeeper huffed and puffed his way toward her.

She summoned a smile for that worthy as he stopped before her, wringing his hands on the large cotton apron that served to protect his buckskin breeches.

His round face was flushed and his bald pate glistened.

Had she been less tired, Catherine would have been amused by his mannerisms and dubbed him a scuttling beetle of a fellow.

“Good evening. I believe you have rooms bespoken for us by Sir Eugene Burke,” she said softly.

The innkeeper bowed, but before he could answer, a slurred voice came from the direction of the taproom.

“Too old for a daughter and don’t look like a wife, no rings. Hey,” the voice said more loudly after jabbing one of his compatriots in the side and winking broadly. “What are you, his bit of muslin?”

The two other gentlemen laughed uproariously.

Stunned, Catherine glanced briefly in their direction but otherwise did not acknowledge that she had heard the comment.

She noted the three gentlemen sprawled around the table were fashionably dressed, though a trifle castaway in countenance and appearance.

Her tormentor seemed much the eldest of the group, at least five-and-thirty.

His companions appeared in their twenties, the youngest a pretty fair-haired youth Catherine deemed only slightly removed from the grubby schoolboy state.

Encouraged by such ready laughter and another quaff of ale, the heckler hailed the innkeeper. “I thought this was a respectable inn. What’s this becoming, a bawdy house?” Again he collapsed into laughter as he swilled his ale.

Catherine frowned and her eyes narrowed as she continued to face the innkeeper.

That gentleman was flustered. True, he did have rooms bespoken by Sir Eugene Burke, yet he hesitated; his was a prominent establishment.

It would not do to let it be thought it was also an abode for common tramps.

He looked from the gentlemen to the drab female standing before him.

It didn’t seem in keeping with her calling to be dressed so severely.

A disguise? He blinked rapidly and rubbed his hands down his aproned front.

Catherine caught the hesitation in his manner. Her color rose, her eyes glinting dangerously. “I am his niece,” she said through clenched teeth.

That brought another wave of laughter from the gentlemen sprawled across the oak table in the taproom. “Niece! His horses look better than you do!”

Catherine whirled to face the source of the needling drunken voice and curled her lip contemptuously.

He raised his mug in mock salute.

Maureen and Bethie began to exclaim loudly; however, Catherine hushed them and turned to the innkeeper once again.

“I am Catherine Shreveton, Sir Eugene Burke’s niece, and I am on my way to London to visit my aunt, the Countess of Seaverness,” she said levelly.

At that, the youngest of the three tormentors gave a crow of laughter and slapped his knee.

“Stab me if you ain’t got the right of it, Kirkson, and that just proves it,” he said, hiccoughing.

“Everyone knows all Shrevetons are blond like me. I ought to know my own kin, and you don’t look like any to me. ” He blinked at her owlishly.

The innkeeper began to wring his hands. Sir Eugene was a valued customer. Nevertheless... “Now see here, miss,” he began.

He got no farther. Kirkson, rising from his chair by the door, came up behind Catherine and grabbed her around the waist.

Panic clutched at Catherine. She beat him wildly about the head with her reticule, twisting and turning to break free from his grasp.

Maureen screamed in outrage and pummeled his back.

Bethie attacked his shins with her heavy country shoes and clawed at his face, calling him every sort of beast and screeching at him to let her mistress go.

The innkeeper wrung his hands, then wiped them against his apron again as he feebly protested.

Ignoring the innkeeper, Kirkson swore viciously, relinquishing his grasp of Catherine as he turned to fight off her protectors. Dodging another kick, he pushed Bethie toward the gentleman claiming Shreveton kinship.

“Orrick, take this tidbit and keep her out of my way!”

With Bethie gone, he swung around to face Maureen, his elbow connecting with her right eye.

Maureen howled in pain, momentarily blinded by tears of pain.

Kirkson shoved her roughly away. Maureen staggered backward and fell awkwardly into a corner of the hall.

He turned back to Catherine, who raised her arm to hit him again.

He caught her wrist, cruelly twisting it, and wrested her reticule away.

“Here, George, catch!” He tossed the purse to the third gentleman, who still sat at the table, clutching his sides in laughter.

Catherine’s initial fear was replaced by cold anger as she felt Kirkson’s arms go around her.

She tried to squirm away, but he held her fast. He laughed at her attempts, her twisting motions increasing the ardor in his eyes.

Pulling her close, his mouth came down on hers hard, his teeth grinding painfully against her lips.

Catherine had never kissed a man and felt a suffocating horror engulf her.

She was dimly aware of George pulling money out of her reticule and tossing it into the air.

Some of it fluttered into the fireplace, flaring briefly.

In wild desperation, Catherine viciously bit Kirkson’s lower lip.

He drew back swearing and momentarily loosened his grasp.

It was enough. She broke loose. As he made to lunge for her again, she picked up his mug of ale and threw it at him.

"Brava!” said a voice from the balcony.

All eyes turned upward to the figure leaning on the balustrade. Catherine’s mouth dropped open, dumb surprise robbing her of motion. It was the gentleman she’d seen a month before at her uncle’s!

“By-the-by, Orrick,” the gentleman went on in a bored tone as he flicked open a small gold snuffbox with one hand and delicately took a pinch, “I don’t believe anyone would call St. Ryne fair, and I’ve heard those young brats of Aldric’s have their mother’s mousey brown looks.”

The innkeeper looked up at his distinguished guest and blinked rapidly, his eyes widening. “Gentlemen, please!” he squeaked.

“Stay out of this, Stefton,” Kirkson warned after a cursory glance in the Marquis’s direction.

He advanced steadily on Catherine. Young Orrick, momentarily taken aback by Stefton’s remarks, was surprised when Bethie kicked him in the shins.

He let her go, yelping in pain. Maureen scrambled awkwardly to her feet and ran out the door.

Eager to help her mistress, Bethie evaded Orrick’s lunge and grabbed a candlestick, throwing it at Kirkson. He dodged it with ease, but her actions allowed Catherine to gather her wits.

Catherine ran to the fireplace and grasped a poker to brandish before her. Her bonnet had come off in the scuffling, and her hair was tumbling down. She was breathing rapidly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark and sparkling.

“You bitch,” Kirkson growled. “Think you’re too good for us, eh? I’ll get you. It will be a pleasure to tame you, my dear.”

“Careful, Kirkson, don’t say I didn’t warn you; I’d lay you odds she is who she claims to be,” Stefton drawled as he walked to the stairway.

The innkeeper glanced rapidly from the girl to the Marquis and back again. Nervously, he cleared his throat and clasped his pudgy hands before him. “Sir! Sir! I must insist you leave this young woman alone. Please desist, sir!”

“I would have said that earlier if I were you,” Stefton told the innkeeper as he reached the bottom stair. The man backed away in confusion at the condemning expression on the Marquis’s face.

Kirkson backed Catherine into a corner. Stefton could see a wild martial light flaring in her eyes as she prepared to defend herself.

Orrick and George Primly were whistling and hooting encouragement to Kirkson.

Bethie, her eyes wide with fright as she stood with her back to the front wall, looked pleadingly at the Marquis.

“You are becoming a bore, Kirkson,” Stefton said languidly.

Kirkson laughed, intent on capturing his prize. Catherine swung the poker, but it was an awkward weapon. He twisted it out of her grasp, tossing it across the room. He took another step closer to her. With his advance, she shrank back into the corner as far as she could.

Suddenly, her languid supporter from the balcony was behind Kirkson, his shoulders bunching as he pounced on Kirkson like a large black panther, grasping her attacker by the collar and pulling him roughly off balance.

Raymond Dawes, followed by Tom Coachman and Maureen, rushed into the room. Stefton, seeing Sir Eugene’s man, swung Kirkson over to him.

“Dawes, perhaps you would be so kind as to dispose of this filth.”

Raymond did not wait to question. He drew back his arm then delivered a shattering right hook to Kirkson’s jaw. The man staggered backward, then crumbled to the floor. Dawes grabbed him under his arms and dragged him outside.

Tom Coachman grabbed George and young Orrick as they tumbled over each other in their efforts to escape, banged their heads together, and ensured they followed their friend out the door.

Maureen and Bethie supported a trembling Catherine.

“I have stayed here many times, as you know,” Raymond, breathing heavily, said to the innkeeper, “and I suggested this establishment to Sir Eugene. I shall inform him of my error.” He turned to Catherine, his face a study of anger, chagrin, and remorse.

“Miss Catherine, I am sorry I chose so ill. Shall I have the horses put to and we go elsewhere?”

The innkeeper sat down heavily on the stairs, his head in his hands. “I am ruined,” he muttered. “Absolutely ruined.”

From his vantage point by the fireplace, Stefton leaned against the mantelpiece and watched Catherine through hooded eyes.

He had been intrigued by her spirit as she fought Kirkson with such icy determination, and he had found himself coming to her aid out of admiration for that determination and strength.

Yet now, he saw her as she suffered the emotional backlash.

He saw her blanched complexion, her trembling, and as she closed her eyes to fight off a last convulsive shudder, he saw her bite her full lower lip and draw a bright red bead of blood as she strove to overcome her raging emotions and drop a calm mantle over herself.

When she finally opened her rich chocolate brown eyes to answer Dawes, Stefton unconsciously straightened. This was no missish debutante. Most women of his acquaintance would have continued their weeping and protestations. This woman was different.

A sudden tightening in his loins took him by surprise, for he was not some callow youth discovering the mysteries of the fruitful vine. He admitted a strangely dispassionate curiosity as to his reactions to this woman. The upcoming Season, he mused, could prove vastly entertaining.

Catherine’s voice when she answered Raymond was low and husky.

“No, we shall remain here for the night as my uncle arranged.” The necessity of making decisions brought Catherine to her senses again.

“I am certain we can look to the landlord to assure us we shall be well-tended. Is that not correct, my good man?” she asked in a firm yet soft voice.

The innkeeper, hardly daring to trust his good fortune, jumped up, hurriedly bowed several times, and kissed Catherine’s hand, assuring her in broken stammering phrases that all would be as she would like. She hardly seemed to notice but waved him to the stairs.

“Just show us to our rooms at the moment. I believe I will rest before dinner.”

Stefton, watching the whole, surprised everyone, including himself, by laughing out loud.