Page 3 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Scratching week-old whiskers, he grinned. Bedraggled queue and bleary-eyed, he was no prize tonight. Nor could he remember his last decent bath. Ears perked, he tried gleaning information about her, but tree branches crackled. Khan snickered, his bridle jangling when he shook his head. Conversations overlapped, the women fussing the way excited hens clucked at the same kernel.

“That hostler,” one woman hissed. “When he waved his pistol to show he was man enough to kiss you—”

“Oh, a fool to be sure,” the other said. “We’ve suffered a long night…”

The red-cloaked woman’s patient voice braided calmly in between, soothing ruffled feathers. Definitely a governess. If he were in a gambling establishment, he’d give minor odds on the lady’s companion. Shoes scuffed the coach steps. Iron joints whined from riders finding their seats. Feminine voices dimmed, and the door clicked shut. Chuckling, he stared at the midnight sky, the stars winking at him, witnesses to how far he’d fallen. The heavenly bodies could be reminding him that his night would end the way it began. Alone.

At least his dark craving had passed.

He crouched low and dug out the blunderbuss wedged in the ground. Fingers stiff from the cold wiped dirt off the nicked brass barrel. He ought to open the coach door, say something witty to her, but his brain was porridge tonight. Was he losing his touch with the fair sex?

Balancing the blunderbuss on his palm, he inspected his cursory cleaning job. Wind howled, blowing his hair across his face. A door opened and snapped shut behind him. Cautious footsteps crunched dry ground, and a slow smile formed against his collar. The woman in red. Had to be. He kept a careful eye on the driver and hostler navigating the tree-lined gully and waited for those browned hems to come to him.

Flirtation was a patient man’s game.

“A Frenchespingole,” a feminine voice said over his shoulder.

His ear caught untutored French, but the woman in red knew her weapons—at least this one. The blunderbuss was in fact a Frenchespingolemanufactured eight years past…in the middle of the war.

She inched closer, her skirts and a leather strap grazing his thigh. “You could’ve given it back. I doubt the hostler knows how to use it.”

“I’ve been shot at enough times not to tempt fate.” Grinning, he rose to full height. “And interrupting a romantic interlude has a way of agitating a man.”

“Romantic interlude indeed,” she huffed. “I offered to help the hostler,notkiss him.”

Help the hostler? With the broken brace?

He glanced at her slender hands. His roadside companion pushed back one side of her hood as though she sought a better view of him. With the moon at her back, pallid light spilled over him, leaving her in shadows.

“May I?” She looped the leather strap over her arm and extended an upright palm.

He passed over the blunderbuss. One red-gloved hand curled around the walnut stock with feminine authority. She angled the weapon in moonlight, her thumb stroking the rounded end. His hips twitched. Her careful touch stirred languorous heat in his smalls as if those red-clad fingers were fondling him.

“A good hold, but the wood needs oiling.” A leather-clad finger drew a leisured line down the hammer. “Cockspur’s bent. Probably doesn’t fire right.”

“I wouldn’t rush to any conclusions,” he mused.

“There’s no visible powder on the flashpan. It’s the worse for wear, milord. Not a piece to be taken seriously.”

“Making it all the more dangerous. Don’t you think?”

Was his roadside companion delivering her estimation of him? Her eyes weren’t visible in the darkness, but he couldfeelthem…tracing his features, assessing, wondering.

She tipped her chin, and moonlight touched a smile ghosting her lips. “Looks harmless to me.”

He chuckled drily, savoring her voice, the firmness of it dipping on certain syllables like a velvet caress. Addressing the hostler, she had been all business. A no-nonsense alto, this woman in red. Standing with him, she enlivened the bare country road, treating innuendo like a sword and shield.

“Looks can be deceiving. Never underestimate what’s the worse for wear.” His mouth quirked. “You might be surprised at what you find.”

Wind fluttered the sides of her hood. “A fine point, sir. Well-traveled weapons, if given proper care, provide…fluid handling.”

A twinge teased his bollocks. Her droll tone and intimate knowledge of weaponry danced at the edge of fast. He quashed the governess idea. Progeny and pistols didn’t mix. Whatever her status, he was grateful for his roadside companion. Flirtation was its own elixir, helping him to forget his dark cravings.

A sharp squall knocked back her hood. She gasped, shivering. He stepped closer and turned his body to shield her, the dry, cold air blasting his back. Long amber hair fell past her shoulders.

“You’re blocking the wind for me. I can’t remember the last time a man’s done something like that.” She touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure…miss.” He stood taller. The need to protect was primal, as old as time itself. “Midnight or not, this is a peculiar situation.”