Page 2 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Cottony wisps of hair haloed the old man’s head. His lined face pinched. “Well, now, there was a wee problem. Horatio was a bit of a waddlehead, bein’ deep in his cups and all, but he’s a good lad, he is.”

“A kiss.” Horatio’s sotted voice boomed. “That’s all I wonted.”

Marcus cringed. “You wanted to kiss the coachman?”

The women tittered behind him.

“Not him.Her.” The scarlet-faced hostler jabbed a grimy finger at the coach horses.

A tall woman cloaked in red held the lead horse’s bridle. No flesh was visible; red gloves even covered her hands.

The driver faced the hostler. “When a woman says no, ye got to listen.” Putting on his hat, he turned to Marcus. “I was tellin’ him to go home when ye came ridin’.”

Marcus couldn’t see the woman in red’s eyes, but she took his measure, her stare a palpable plumb line from the horses to where he stood.

“Then I’ll stay and make sure the hostler takes his proper leave,” he said, his pistol arm relaxing.

The hostler cleared his throat. Shoulders slumping, the young man’s glower swept to the woman in red. “Didn’t mean any harm,” he mumbled. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

The mysterious woman closed the distance, the pitch of her skirts gentle yet full of purpose. Her cloak wasn’t long enough to hide hems browned from mud. Likely she’d been recruited to push the coach out of a rut or two. Marcus had theories about women’s skirts. They could be as telling as a broadsheet.

“You’re forgiven, but I suggest you abstain from strong drink.” Her words rang clear above the wind. “You gave Mrs. Tubbs and Mrs. Farleigh a horrible fright.”

Marcus tucked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket. Interesting. She omitted any mention of her own fright. Her posture rigid, the woman in red could be a sergeant in a skirt, redressing an errant recruit, the watermark of a strict governess. The admonished hostler stumbled forward, his droopy-eyed stare dipping to the blunderbuss.

Marcus shook his head, his boot on the weapon. “The coachman will take your pistol. You’ll find it at the Jolly Sheep come morning when you’re good and sober.”

Horatio hiccupped and lurched, unsteady on his feet. The old man stepped lively and wrapped an arm around him. “That’s it, lad,” the coachman said, his frame bending under the burden. “Lean on me.”

Marcus tucked away his pistol. “Here. Let me see him home.”

“Best if I do it. He lives there”—the driver nodded at the cottages—“beyond those trees, but I’d be grateful if ye tended the women. Me watchman ran ahead to fetch Horatio and stayed in the village, blast his eyes.”

Marcus’s gaze slid to the woman in red. Her erect stature told him she could mind the coach herself, dark of midnight or not, but he was a gentleman born and bred.

“Of course.”

The only person in need of tending lumbered off on stout-addled legs. Nothing dangerous here. He smirked at the darkness. So much for riding to the rescue. They didn’t need him. His days of valor were long gone, sold off with his army commission five years past. He rubbed his eyes, grainy from lack of sleep, the autumn gusts taunting him with reminders of why he was in the forsaken north.

His vices.

Throat parched, he slipped a hand inside his coat. His whiskey flask waited, a close companion ready to fill his need. Sweat pricked his hairline, hot and antagonizing. His dark craving…the pull. He clasped the comforting shape, weak for the sloshing siren and her talent for soothing him. It was no mistake the whiskey sat near his heart. One swallow would satisfy, maybe two.

Something to quench the bone-deep thirst that hounded him in all this cold northern air.

Each breath came loud to his ears.

In. Out.

In. Out.

His fingertips pinched cold metal. He slid the flask half out of his pocket, a peculiar tingle scraping his neck. Behind him. Someone stared. More like bored holes into his back, by the feel. Looking over his shoulder, he let go of the flask and his hand fell free of his coat.

The mystery woman.

With the lantern gone, midnight turned her red cloak to shades of wine. Her hood fluttered, but a firm grip held the wool in place. She wasn’t a threat. Banshee winds stirred her skirts, revealing the tips of her shoes pointed his way. A diversion of any kind would be welcome. He smiled, an invitation for her to smile back.

But the woman in red turned, clapping her hands twice. “Ladies, the sooner we’re settled in the coach, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”