The Earl of Her Dreams (4 page)

Hell, it wasn’t Christian’s fault that Anthony’s aunt had involuntarily given it away. So, yes, he
had
arrived at her house a day late due to a hangover
and extenuating circumstances involving long, shapely legs wrapped around his, but he hadn’t been
that
late. Not late enough to anticipate that someone would
steal
the damn thing before he got there. What had Anthony been thinking to leave the journal with his crazy aunt? A voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his father’s asked, What had Anthony been thinking of to give Christian the task of appropriating something of such obvious value?

Christian pushed the voice away with a snarl and a second swig of bitter ale. Great. That was all he needed, the sound of his father’s condescending voice echoing in the void. He’d just visit his father at Rosewood Manor if he felt like punishing himself.

Christian watched a scuffle break out among the patrons at two of the large benched tables in the middle of the room. One of the men lunged, and a brawl began in earnest. Probably a fight over some woman or someone’s pride or honor.

The fight mirrored his sudden change in mood.

He leaned back, shifting to keep the front of the hard chair from digging into his backside. He had at least an hour or two more before Freewater would show for supper. Plenty of time to drink a few pints and indulge in a bit of mischief if he
wanted to join the fray or banter with his roommate.

A swatch of brown caught his attention. His eyes followed Kate as she picked up two empty mugs on a table. It still amazed him that no one seemed to realize she was female. She blended into the background so well that most of the patrons barely spared her a glance.

What did she look like beneath the oversized men’s garments? He wanted to strip her of her outer coverings and get rid of that damn cap and head wrap thing. She would never be a showy beauty, but she had a quiet prettiness. And there was a spark to her that vied with her demure looks. A zest—the real kind, not the type expertly faked by a courtesan trying to catch a man’s eye.

Yes, a tumble between the sheets with the fey lady would be quite an adventure. More so than with some practiced barmaid, no matter how lusciously endowed. Now if only he could get past the outrage and propriety she had shown. All it took was the right phrase or words of encouragement to get most women beyond proper…and properly out of their clothes.

He was on a time constraint, but that only made it more of a challenge. Kate bent over to assist a man on the floor, providing Christian with an
excellent view of her backside. Yes, the challenge was definitely going to be worth the effort. Now to figure out how to remove those nicely clinging breeches…

Stuck in his musings over Kate’s shapely backside, Christian barely had time to register the fist flying toward his face.

C
hristian ducked just in time to avoid a burly fist headed straight for his nose. The fist connected with the mortared wall behind him and a howl of pain issued forth from its owner. Christian half rose and used the man’s forward momentum to thrust his head into the wall as well. The fighter crumpled like a wet rag to the floor, and Christian stood to join the melee.

After everything that had happened to him during the past week, a bit of exercise might go a long
way in releasing some pent-up tension. From experience he knew it would be only a matter of moments before another person tried to engage him in a fight.

Benches and chairs overturned, tables jostled, and liquid splashed as mugs were thrown. Off to his side a flash of wide blue eyes and a brown cap caught his attention. What the devil was Kate still doing in here? Christian stepped forward, grabbed her wrist, and unceremoniously pulled her behind him, pushing her shapely backside into the protected wall.

She made a slight mew of protest that barely registered over the din of angry words, bones crushing bones, and bodies hitting the floor. But she didn’t resist.

She was such a tiny thing that one flying elbow would take her down. A dark blur entered his vision on the right, close to Kate. A wave of fury swept through him at the image.

Christian moved in front of her and allowed the man’s fist to glance off his jaw. The movement left the man’s entire side unprotected. Christian dropped him with a sharp blow to the gut, white-hot anger flowing through his veins. The man groaned and hit the floor a few feet away.

Christian reached back and grabbed a section of
Kate’s shirt without taking his eyes from the man on the ground or the ongoing brawl. Her squawk told him she was fine, and he let go. A small hand came up to rest lightly in the middle of his back. He pressed against it, warmed by the contact.

The man on the floor had been bent on hitting her. Christian looked down at the crumpled figure and considered kicking him for good measure.

Mr. Wicket bustled into the taproom wielding a broom and yelling, “Stop! Stop!” then promptly slipped on a wet patch of the now slick wooden floor. Flailing his arms, he tried to maintain his balance, but dropped the broom and toppled onto his back. Moments later a whoosh of air issued from his throat as a brute landed on his prominent belly.

Christian looked from the pile to the dark-haired bastard he had felled moments before. The man was rising with a grimace, but with a no less determined expression. “No one hits me. I’ll beat you to a pulp, you cur.”

The man started forward, his fists flying. The hand on Christian’s back knotted into his jacket.

Christian lifted his foot and indulged his urge to kick, aiming straight for the man’s knees. The strike wasn’t as hard as it could have been, but
tears welled in the man’s eyes as he fell bellowing to the floor once again.

Two bruisers mopped up the fighters across the room, while two blond-haired men grappled in front of the fireplace.

A well-built, expensively dressed man casually sipped his drink in the corner, seemingly unbothered by anything or anyone else in the room. The man turned and tipped his head to Christian, an amused smirk on his face, no fear or wariness in his gaze. The bruisers must have belonged to him. Either that or he was one peg short like Nicodemus Nickford upstairs.

Kate’s hand released the death grip on his jacket and she stepped closer, her shoulder brushing the back of his arm as she peered around him. The bottom edge of her coat brushed his hand. He ran the thick fabric through his fingers, wondering when the rougher material had become more interesting than silk.

The bruisers joined the lounging man at his table. Groans issued from the six, no seven, bodies on the floor and several draped over the tables.

As if on cue, a rawboned woman came screeching into the room.

“Aiiieeee!”

Belying her scrawny frame, the woman pulled the only two still grappling men apart by the ears and hauled the blonds to one of the few benches that had remained upright.

“Lawrence Lake, Julius Janson, you should be ashamed! What have you done to my inn?” She gave both men an evil glare. “Well, Mr. Lake? I’m waiting.”

Lawrence Lake’s brown eyes narrowed dangerously upon Julius Janson’s self-satisfied face. Lake, the leaner of the two, wiped the back of his sleeve across his torn lip. Blood was running freely from the wound. “Ask Janson.”

Janson shrugged. “Lake is just bitter about being such a half-arsed cricket player.”

“Why you—” Lake lunged for Janson. The expensively dressed man in the corner tipped his head, and one of his two bruisers gripped Lake’s shoulder and shoved him unceremoniously back in his seat.

The innkeeper’s wife narrowed her eyes at the large man, but refocused on Lake. “Mr. Lake, I must
insist
you behave yourself or you will be asked to leave. I may ask you to leave in any case.”

Lake’s mouth opened, then abruptly shut as he looked toward the door. Christian turned and saw a number of servants scrunched in the doorway
watching. The innkeeper’s daughter Mary, the epitome of the healthy country lass, was in front, her brows drawn together. Christian glanced back to see Lake’s pained expression. Ah, so that was the way the wind blew.

Julius Janson’s smirk grew. His green eyes took on a malicious glow. “Lake is a sore loser. Can’t measure up in any way, as a player, as a fighter, or as a man.”

Lake’s eyes darted to Mary again before turning to her mother. “Mr. Janson made a few rather obnoxious comments about…some things…and the fight broke out. You can ask the other members of my team.”

He pointed at a number of downed players, none of whom looked coherent enough to confirm or deny his statement.

Janson laughed, his expression hard and resentful. “Ask any of the members of
our
team, Mr. and Mrs. Wicket, and you’ll find the story to be much different. Just ask Donald.” He pointed to the man who was pushing himself up from where Christian had laid him out twice.

Kate’s small hand returned to rest comfortingly on Christian’s back.

Christian’s kicking instinct quieted. Donald Desmond. He thought he had heard someone call
out the name earlier. The man had dark hair and dark eyes and looked to be on par with his bully friend, Janson. Desmond shot Christian a hard, cold look that promised retribution. He was obviously not the kind of man who took well to being beaten.

Unfortunately for him, his look of retribution, especially after being soundly thrashed, just made him look silly.

“Julius made a casual comment and Lake lunged across the table, much as he did just a few seconds ago,” Desmond sneeringly corroborated. He sent a calculating look toward Mary. “Very violent man, Mr. Lake. One can never be too careful around him.”

Christian sensed Lake’s deepening anger. The man seemed to be holding himself by a thread. Perhaps it was outrage over the two men’s statements combined with the glaring fact that if he continued to fight it would just lend credence to their arguments. The bruiser also seemed to realize that sheer will alone was holding Lake from pouncing, and the hand on Lake’s shoulder tightened.

“Mr. Lake, you will come with me.” The innkeeper’s wife turned and wagged her finger. “And you, Julius, should know better!”

Julius assumed a hangdog expression. “Yes, ma’am, I’m terribly ashamed.”

The innkeeper huffed next to his wife. “There now, Julius is full of spirit. I know sometimes the mood strikes. Just not in the taproom, man!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wicket, sir.”

Mr. Wicket smiled. “Can’t have our best player injured. Mary would be devastated, of course.”

All heads turned to the doorway to look for confirmation, but Mary had disappeared.

The innkeeper puttered around the room chastising the men for fighting and possibly hurting themselves so close to cricket season. Christian raised a brow. Cricket season was a good five months away.

The small, comforting hand dropped from his back. Kate stepped forward and gave Christian an unreadable look, then frowned in disgust at the combatants, who were in various states of awareness.

Daisy came breezing in to help clean up the mess. “I can’t believe how men love to fight. Just look at them.” The men were sheepish as they began to sort themselves out. “The blacksmith, the cobbler, and the cobbler’s son all in a pile.”

“Yeah, and I’m the baker,” groaned the man who had taken a wild swing at Christian earlier
and then ended up attached to the wall. He was looking sheepish as he apologized profusely to Christian and the innkeeper.

“So what do those two do for a living?” Christian asked, nodding to Desmond and Janson.

“Not much, I hear,” Kate muttered under her breath.

Daisy picked up a mug. “Donald Desmond’s the son of a well-to-do family, and Julius Janson is the squire’s son.”

The hierarchy was soon apparent as the combatants tidied up. Janson ruled their side of the cricket divide, with Desmond sneering next to him.

Christian turned to Kate as Daisy moved away. “And you, Mr. Kaden? What were you doing in this fine taproom while a fight ensued?”

“Some of us have to earn our way. We can’t just be inveterate gamblers and taproom brawlers, Mr. Black,” she said primly, although the effect was rather ruined by the splashed ale on her shirt and the smudge on her nose.

“So you were, what? Sewing in the corner?”

“I was helping Daisy clear mugs from the tables. Which is what I should be doing now.”

“Helpful of you. Next time try to follow Daisy’s lead and beat a hasty retreat from the room when a fight breaks out.”

Her chin rose. She started to say something, gritted her teeth, and then repeated the sequence several times before finally saying, “Thank you for helping me during the fight.”

The sentence was torn from her, but Christian just smiled. The hand on his back had said it already. Maybe, just maybe he could stay an extra night at the inn after retrieving the journal. He had a feeling that seducing Kate would be worth it. And his feelings about women seldom led him astray. “You’re welcome, Kate.”

Kate glanced around quickly, her shoulders relaxing as she saw the others had congregated in the center of the room to discuss matters, too far away to hear his soft statement of her name. She gave Christian an unreadable look, muttered something about helping in the kitchen since Mr. Wicket was making the men clean up, and hurried off.

He watched her go. Yes, the night was shaping up to be interesting indeed.

The tables were soon righted and the mess cleaned. Some men drifted into the open dining room, while others ordered another round. Christian noticed that the new round of drinks tasted substantially weaker than the previous one, no doubt watered down to prevent another brawl.

“Mr. Tiegs, Mr. Black, my apologies about the mess. You are both unhurt?”

Christian and the well-dressed man who had stayed out of the fight nodded, their gazes resting on each other rather than on the innkeeper. Christian had a feeling he was looking at the most dangerous man in the room.

“Good, good. Julius, help me with this heavy bench? Wouldn’t want to trip Mr. Tiegs.”

Julius winced infinitesimally as he looked at Tiegs. So there was someone Julius obviously deferred to and/or feared. Interesting.

Christian leaned back in his chair, lifted his new mug, and watched the door for Freewater and the damn journal. He also decided to keep an eye on Tiegs. Two bodyguards? And why had he ordered his lackey to stop Lake from hitting Janson? Janson, with all his bravado, was obviously cowed by Tiegs.

Christian shook his head. No sense in speculating. He wouldn’t be at the inn long enough to sort through the layers of politics and maneuverings motivating the room’s occupants. His primary focus was on snatching Anthony’s journal.

As much as he wanted to strangle his friend, he really would do anything for him. Meeting and befriending Anthony at Eton had changed his life
and taken him from the dark shadow of his family. If the journal was as damaging to Anthony as he had led Christian to believe, then Christian had to get it out of Freewater’s possession as soon as possible.

Nothing would stop him.

Hours later, Christian wearily made his way upstairs. Nothing would stop him except Freewater never leaving his damn room. He was going to resort to knocking on the man’s door and hitting him with a fireplace poker if he didn’t cooperate soon.

He gave Freewater’s door a disgusted glance and reached for the knob on his own door, only to find it locked. Light knocking did no good, so he pounded on the grainy wood. Moments later Kate stuck her head out, looking disgruntled, her cap and head wrap slightly askew. She made a hasty check of the hallway before dragging him inside.

“What are you doing?” she hissed as she began to gather up a pile of clothing laid out for mending. She had obviously taken a nap, if her rumpled clothing and skewed headgear were anything to go by.

“I’m returning to my room.”

She straightened and placed her hands on her
hips. “You said you were going to stay in the taproom most of the night.”

“I changed my mind.”

A muffled bang came from the connecting wall. Freewater was obviously doing something in there. Christian wished the irritating man would grow discouraged with whatever it was and fetch something to eat.

“Maid!”

Or maybe not.

Kate gave the wall a disgusted glance. “He’s been calling for things all night. Refuses to get up and fetch them for himself.”

“Yes, most annoying,” Christian muttered. At least next door to the man he would be able to hear if Freewater moved.

“Let’s get back to you being here. You can’t just change your mind. We had an agreement.”

“Too true. Our agreement was to share a room.”

“You said you would stay in the taproom all night.”

“You are repeating yourself, Kate.”

“Don’t call me that,” she huffed, while obviously waiting for him to leave. “Fine. I will go then.”

The first rule in handling skittish women was to keep them on their toes about whether you were really trying to seduce them.