A Week to Be Wicked (35 page)

If she hadn’t cut it so short last summer, she might have tried to sell her hair. But the locks barely reached below her shoulders now, and they were an unremarkable shade of brown. No wigmaker would want it.

Her best chance was the music shop. Perhaps if she explained her predicament and asked very nicely, the proprietor would accept his music back and return Kate’s money. She would promise to return next week and purchase all the same pieces again. That would afford her enough for a room at a somewhat respectable inn. Staying alone was never advisable, and she didn’t even have her pistol. But she could prop a chair beneath her door and stay awake all night, clutching the fireplace poker and keeping her voice primed to scream.

There. She had a plan.

As she started to cross the street, an elbow knocked her off balance.

“Oy,” its owner said. “Watch yerself, miss.”

Kate whirled away, apologizing. The twine on her parcel snapped. White pages flapped and fluttered into the gusty summer afternoon, like a covey of startled doves.

“Oh no. The music.”

She made wild sweeps with both hands. A few pages disappeared down the street and others fell to the cobblestones, quickly trampled by passersby. But the bulk of the parcel landed in the middle of the lane, still wrapped in brown paper.

She made a lunging grab for it, desperate to save what she could.

“Look sharp!” a man shouted.

Cartwheels creaked. Somewhere much too near, a horse bucked and whinnied. She looked up from where she’d crouched in the lane to see two windmilling, iron-shoed hooves, big as dinner plates, preparing to demolish her.

A woman screamed.

Kate threw her weight to one side. The horse’s hooves landed just to her left. With a squalling hiss of the brake, a cartwheel screeched to a halt—inches from crushing her leg.

The parcel of sheet music landed some yards distant. Her “plan” was now a mud-stained, wheel-rutted smear on the street.

“Devil take you.” The driver cursed her from the box, brandishing his horsewhip. “A fine little witch you are. Near overset my whole cart.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”

He cracked his whip against the cobblestones. “Out of my way then. You unnatural little—”

As he raised his whip for another strike, Kate flinched and ducked.

No blow came.

A man stepped between her and the cart. “Threaten her again,” she heard him warn the driver in a low, inhuman growl, “and I will whip the flesh from your miserable bones.”

Chilling, those words. But effective. The cart swiftly rolled away.

As strong arms pulled her to her feet, Kate’s gaze climbed a veritable mountain of man. She saw black polished boots. Buff breeches stretched over granite thighs. A distinctive red wool officer’s coat.

Her heart jumped. She
knew
this coat. She’d probably sewn the brass buttons on these cuffs. This was the uniform of the Spindle Cove militia. She was in familiar arms. She was saved. And when she lifted her head, she was guaranteed to find a friendly face, unless . . .

“Miss Taylor?”

Unless.

Unless it was
him
. The only soul in Spindle Cove she could not call a friend. They’d resided in the same village for almost a year now, and he’d made it abundantly clear he had no interest in friendship. He had no use for her company at all.

“Corporal Thorne,” she whispered.

In all her life, she’d never known a man who could look so hard. His face was stony—composed of ruthless, chiseled angles and unyielding planes. Its stark terrain offered her no shelter, nowhere to hide. His mouth was a grim slash. His dark brows converged in disapproval. And his eyes . . . his eyes were the blue of river ice on the coldest, harshest winter night.

On another day, Kate could have laughed at the irony. Of all the people to come to her rescue, it
would
be this one—the man with no heart at all.

“Miss Taylor. What the devil are you doing here?”

At his rough tone, all her muscles pulled tight. “I . . . I came into town to purchase new sheet music and to . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to mention calling on Miss Paringham. “But I dropped my parcel, and now I’ve missed the stage home. Silly me.”

Silly, foolish, shame-marked, unwanted me
.

“And now I’m truly stuck, I’m afraid. If only I’d brought a little more money, I could afford a room for the evening, then go back to Spindle Cove tomorrow.”

“You’ve no money?”

She turned away, unable to bear the chastisement in his gaze.

“What were you thinking, traveling all this distance alone?”

“I hadn’t any choice. I’m an unmarried woman with no parents, no siblings. No means to hire a companion.” Her voice caught. “I am completely alone.”

His grip firmed on her arms. “I’m here. You’re not alone now.”

Hardly poetry, those words. A simple statement of fact. They scarcely shared the same alphabet as kindness. If true comfort were a nourishing, wholemeal loaf, what he offered her were a few stale crumbs.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She was a starving girl, and she hadn’t the dignity to refuse.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed, choking back a sob. “You’re not going to like this.”

And with that, Kate fell into his immense, rigid, unwilling embrace—and wept.

B
loody hell.

She burst into tears. Right there in the street, for God’s sake. Her lovely face screwed up. She bent forward until her forehead met his chest, then she heaved a loud, wrenching sob.

Then a second. And a third.

His gelding danced sideways, and Thorne shared the beast’s unease. Given a choice between watching Miss Kate Taylor weep and offering his own liver to carrion birds, Thorne would have had his knife out and sharpened before the first tear rolled down her face.

He clucked his tongue softly, which did some good toward calming the horse. It had no effect on the girl. Her slender shoulders convulsed as she wept into his coat. His hands remained fixed on her arms.

In a desperate gesture, he slid them up. Then down.

No help.

What’s happened?
he wanted to ask.
Who’s hurt you?
Who can I maim or kill for distressing you this way?

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away after some minutes had passed.

“Why?”

“For weeping all over you. Forcing you to hold me. I know you must hate it.” She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Her nose and eyes were red. “I mean, not that you don’t like holding women. Everyone in Spindle Cove knows you like women. I’ve heard far more than I care to hear about your—”

She paled and stopped talking.

Just as well.

He took the horse’s lead in one hand and laid the other hand to Miss Taylor’s back, guiding her out of the street. Once they’d reached the side of the lane, he looped his horse’s reins about a post and turned his sights toward making her comfortable. There wasn’t anywhere for her to sit. No bench, no crate.

This disturbed him beyond reason.

His gaze went to a tavern across the street—the sort of establishment he’d never allow her to enter—but he was seriously considering crossing the lane, toppling the first available drunk off his seat, and dragging the vacated chair out for her. A woman shouldn’t weep while standing. It just didn’t seem right.

“Please, can’t you just loan me a few shillings? I’ll find an inn for the night, and I won’t trouble you any further.”

“Miss Taylor, I can’t lend you money to pass the night alone in a coaching inn. It’s not safe.”

“I have no choice but to stay. There won’t be another stage back to Spindle Cove until morning.”

He looked at his gelding. “I’ll hire you a horse, if you can ride.”

She shook her head. “I never had any lessons.”

Curse it. How was he going to remedy this situation? He easily had the money to hire another horse, but nowhere near enough coin in his pocket for a private carriage. Ten miles was an easy march for him, but too far to ask a lady to walk. He
could
put her up in an inn—but damned if he would let her stay alone.

A dangerous thought visited him, sinking talons into his mind.

He could stay
with
her.

Not in a tawdry way, he told himself. Just as her protector. He could find a damned place for her to sit down as a start. He could see that she had food and drink and warm blankets. He could stand watch while she slept and make certain nothing disturbed her. He could be there when she woke.

After all these months of frustrated longing, maybe that would be enough.

Enough? Right
.

“Good heavens.” She took a sudden step back.

“What is it?”

Her gaze dropped and she swallowed hard. “Some part of you is
moving
.”

“No, it’s not.” Thorne conducted a quick, silent assessment of his personal equipment. He found all to be under regulation. On another occasion—one with fewer tears involved—this degree of closeness would have undoubtedly roused his lust. But today she was affecting him rather higher in his torso, tying his guts in knots and poking at whatever black, smoking cinder remained of his heart.

“Your satchel.” She indicated the leather pouch slung crossways over his chest. “It’s . . . wriggling.”

Oh. That. In all the commotion, he’d nearly forgotten the creature.

He reached beneath the leather flap and withdrew the source of the wriggling, holding it up for her to see.

“It’s just this.”

And suddenly, everything was different. It was like the whole world took a knock and tilted at a fresh angle. In less time than it took a man’s heart to skip, Miss Taylor’s face transformed. The tears were gone. Her elegant, sweeping eyebrows arched in surprise. Her eyes candled to life—glowed, really, like two stars. Her lips fell apart in a delighted gasp.

“Oh.” She pressed one hand to her cheek. “Oh, it’s a
puppy
.”

She smiled. Lord, how she smiled. All because of this wriggling ball of snout and fur that was as likely to piss on her slippers as chew them to bits.

She tucked her parcel under one arm and reached forward. “May I?”

As if Thorne could refuse. He placed the pup in her arms.

She fawned and cooed over it like a baby. “Where did you come from, sweeting?”

“A farm nearby,” Thorne answered. “Thought I’d take him back to the castle. Been needing a hound.”

She cocked her head and peered at the pup. “
Is
he a hound?”

“Partly.”

Her fingers traced a rust-colored patch over the pup’s right eye. “I’d suppose he’s partly many things, isn’t he? Funny little dear.”

She lifted the pup in both hands and looked at it nose-to-nose, puckering her lips to make a little chirping noise. The dog licked her face.

Lucky cur
.

“Was that mean Corporal Thorne keeping you in a dark, nasty satchel?” She gave the pup a playful shake. “You like it so much better out here with me, don’t you? Of course you do.”

The dog yipped. She laughed and drew it close to her chest, bending over its furry neck.

“You are perfect,” he heard her whisper. “You are just exactly what I needed today.” She stroked the pup’s fur. “Thank you.”

Thorne felt a sharp twist in his chest. Like something rusted and bent, shaking loose. This girl had a way of doing that—making him
feel
. She always had, even years upon years in the past. That long-ago time seemed to fall beyond the reach of her earliest memories. A true mercy for her.

But Thorne remembered. He remembered it all.

He cleared his throat. “We’d best be on the road. It’ll be near dark by the time we reach Spindle Cove.”

She tore her attention from the dog and gave Thorne a curious glance. “But how?”

“You’ll ride with me. The both of you. I’ll take you up on my saddle. You’ll carry the dog.”

As if consulting all the concerned parties, she turned to the horse. Then to the dog. Lastly, she lifted her gaze to Thorne’s. “You’re certain we’ll fit?”

“Just.”

She bit her lip, looking unsure.

Her instinctive resistance to the idea was plain. And understandable. Thorne wasn’t overeager to put his plan in action, either. Three hours astride a horse with Miss Kate Taylor nestled between his thighs? Torture of the keenest sort. But he could see no better way to have her swiftly and safely home.

He could do this. If he’d lasted a year with her in the same tiny village, he could withstand a few hours’ closeness.

“I won’t leave you here,” he said. “It’ll have to be done.”