Tiger's Eye (25 page)

“Oh, aye. I think I can do that.”

He was swaying, eyeing the horse with an expression that she couldn’t quite fathom. Then he looked from it to her with a grimace that she almost thought looked shamefaced.

“Well, then, get on. Shall I try to help you?”

“Perhaps you’d better get on first, and I’ll ride behind you.”

“But you may need me to give you a boost, or some such.”

“Countess, I need you to steer the bloody beast. I’ve never done such in my life, and now is not the time to learn.”

“What?” The confession was so stunning that she just stood there staring at him, sure she could not have heard correctly.

“I’m dab hand at driving, because for a while I earned a few coppers as a hackney driver, but I’ve never had occasion to throw a leg over one of the bloody beasts and ride it. I’m London-bred, remember? There weren’t too many horses around for me to practice on when I was a lad.”

He sounded defensive, and the look he gave her was truculent, as if daring her to think less of him because he could not ride. To Isabella, riding a horse was as natural as breathing, but she realized in that moment that it was because she had been doing it from the time she could walk. To her knowledge, all members of her class rode, just as they rose up from their beds in the morning and retired to them at night. It was a skill that required no thought.

“Very well then.” Isabella thought that she recovered from her momentary surprise with aplomb. Without another word she reached up for a handful of mane and hitched herself astride, which was no easy task without a saddle, and in a narrow skirt to boot. To the horse’s credit, he stood still for this indignity—after all, he was a carriage horse, not a saddle horse, and being ridden, particularly bareback, particularly after such a trauma as he had suffered, might reasonably have been expected to send him into high fidgets. Perhaps his senses were still disordered from the shock he had suffered, or perhaps he was just naturally mild-natured. But for whatever reason, he suffered her to mount him with a minimum of trouble. Seated at last, and baring a considerable expanse of stockinged leg, she looked down to find Alec surveying the animal as he might have Mount Kilimanjaro.

She dared say nothing as he heaved himself up behind her. It was obvious from his set expression that his need to depend on her in this situation galled him, but she could think of no way to alleviate his embarrassment. In any case, there was no time for a long, conversational delving into his feelings. Alec had just narrowly missed being murdered, and the killer could well return. It behooved them to make themselves as hard to find as possible, and fast.

Picking up the makeshift rein she had devised from the remnant of the old one, she clucked to the horse. Obliging animal that he was, he immediately began to move up the slope. Behind her, Alec slipped, cursed and closed his hands around her waist, but he kept his seat.

“No, don’t take the road. Through the woods,” he said in her ear as she would have steered the beast back the way they had come. Of course, Alec was right. If the killer came back, he would look first along the road.

Isabella tugged the horse’s head around, and they headed down into the protection of the trees.

XXXV

A
lec was weakening, she could tell from the increased weight of him slumped against her back. Isabella tried to fight down panic. If he fell from the horse, how would she ever manage to get him back on again? She could never lift him.

“There’s an inn not too far from here, I think. ’Tis called the Trader’s Rest. I used to know the bloke who runs it.” His voice was hoarse, and her fear for him heightened. She urged the weary beast carrying them to pick up its pace.

Isabella assumed that the inn Alec mentioned did not cater to the quality. Remembering the flash-house where he had taken her to talk to Molly, Isabella shuddered inwardly. Would the Trader’s Rest be as bad as that? She prayed not; the thought of seeking refuge in such a place frightened her. But Alec needed care, and soon, and protection from his enemies. To get that for him, Isabella was willing to ride into the bowels of hell itself if need be.

Guiding the horse through the woods with neither proper bridle nor a saddle of any description was not an easy task. Fortunately, Blaze, or Boyd, was exhausted from its earlier exertions, and gave her no trouble. As they rode up a little incline, Alec leaned even more heavily against her back. Glancing worriedly over her shoulder, she saw that his face was utterly white beneath the bloodstains and the scarlet-soaked linen of the makeshift bandage.

Desperately she began to talk to him, talk that demanded his response, praying that he would remain conscious until they reached help. The journey seemed never-ending. Even under the trees it was dreadfully hot. Isabella was drenched in sweat before they had covered a mile. She suspected that terror was at least part of the reason for her distress, but the itchy hide beneath her thighs and the body heat of the man pressed close against her back didn’t help.

She was constantly aware of the possibility of pursuit. At every sound in the woods she teased, though she tried to conceal this from Alec. But she suspected that even in his weakened state he was more alert to the danger than she.

From the position of the sun, Isabella judged that it was late afternoon when they emerged from the woods onto another road that was scarcely more than a dusty track. Some quarter of an hour later, after rounding a bend, the inn at last came into view.

It was small and squat, made of chalkstone with a thatched roof. A weather-beaten sign hung over the entrance. The door was flung wide open, and leaned drunkenly against its hinges. Two small, dirty-paned windows were set like eyes on either side of the door. A low stone wall separated the innyard from the road. To Isabella’s horror, the yard was filled to overflowing with a noisy, jostling crowd. Some sort of altercation was obviously in progress. Taken aback, she pulled the horse to a stop.

“Not what you’re used to, is it, Countess?” Alec spoke almost in her ear. “Under the circumstances it’s the best I can do. Go on; we’ll come to no harm here.”

“It looks fine,” Isabella lied in her teeth, and reluctantly gave the horse a nudge. To tell the truth, the place looked like a thieves’ den, and it frightened her even more than she had imagined it would. But what choice did they have?

She urged the tired horse into the yard, doing her best to skirt the commotion. The two men who appeared to be at the center of the disagreement traded insults in bellows that grew increasingly more truculent as Isabella headed the horse around the eddying mob. The crowd seemed to be made up almost entirely of men who certainly seemed to qualify as members of the great unwashed. They were very vocal as they expressed partisanship for one principal or the other.

“Hell and the devil,” Alec muttered in her ear. “We’ve timed this ill. ’Tis a bloody cockfight!”

Only then did Isabella see that each of the principals held a hissing cock, one red and the other white. The crowd cheered then, causing the horse to shy nervously, and formed a rough circle around the two men. As Isabella watched, the men set their bristling roosters on the ground.

With a scream the two birds flew at each other. The crowd yelled hoarse encouragement, as bets, boasts and insults went up on all sides. They closed around the combatants so that Isabella could see nothing but a jostling mass of men’s backs. From the roosters, hidden from her view, came enraged shrieks.

“Head on over to the stable. We don’t want to attract more attention than we can help,” Alec said.

Isabella guided the horse to the rickety wooden barn. No groom ran out to offer assistance; she assumed all the help was engaged in watching the cockfight.

“Can you get down?” Isabella asked.

“Easier than I got up.”

Alec straightened away from her, and as she looked around she saw the intense concentration on his face as he forced himself to marshal his remaining strength. Then, grim-faced, he slid one leg over the horse’s rump and lowered himself to the ground. For just a moment he stood leaning against the animal’s side as if his legs might not support him. Beneath the drying blood he was as white as death itself, but he managed a lopsided smile. Isabella hurriedly dismounted.

“Don’t look so scared,” Alec said. “The owner is an old friend of mine. Just tie up the bloody horse and let’s get inside. I’ll bet I’ve more than one acquaintance in this crowd, and some might not be friendly.”

His enemy—enemies?—might be present. That thought made Isabella catch her breath.

“We’re safe enough; don’t worry. What, don’t you trust me to protect you?”

Only Alec would poke fun at his own weakness at such a time. Isabella had to smile, although the effort was a trifle strained.

“Let’s get you inside,” she said, suddenly realizing how close his strength was to deserting him. For Alec to sway as he pushed away from the horse, he must be close to the limit of his endurance. He must have a bed to lie down upon, and medical attention, very soon.

With Isabella’s arm around his waist, they managed to skirt the crowd without anyone noticing them. The noise was deafening; at any other time the profanity would have made Isabella blush. Under the circumstances she was thankful that the attention of the rabble was focused away from Alec and herself. At the foot of the shallow steps leading into the inn they had to stop. A heavyset, grizzled man in a stained white apron was standing foursquare in the doorway, fists clenched and head bobbing as he shouted encouragement to one of the fighters.

“Can you house another pair of travellers, Innkeep?” Alec’s voice was surprisingly strong. The innkeeper barely bothered to glance at them. His attention was all on the screaming frenzy of the cockfight.

“Nah. Full up.”

“Full up, are you, Hull?”

Alec got his attention this time. The man looked down, his eyes widening on the face that was still dazzlingly handsome and thus easily recognizable despite the layer of blood that coated it.

“The Tiger, as I live and breathe! Come up, come up!” Despite his girth, he jumped down the steps to pump Alec’s hand. “Of course we’ve room! We’ll just throw one of the other bloody beggars out! Step inside! Bloody good to see you, Tiger, bloody good. Lord, it’s been some years! Looks like you’ve met up with a bit of trouble, man.”

“It’s good to see you too, Hull. And the trouble I’ve met up with is the walking, talking, treacherous kind. It may be that someone’ll come looking for us. I can trust you to say naught of my presence, I know.”

“You can trust me with your life, Tiger, and you know it. ’Tis not likely I’d forget.…”

Hull was ushering them up the steps and into the squalid interior, all but bowing and scraping before Alec. The smell of cooking cabbage, combined with less easily identifiable odors, was strong. Isabella, her arm still around Alec’s waist, wondered anew at the power the Tiger must wield to instill such a response in the men who knew him. In his own way, Alec inspired every bit as much awe as her father the duke amongst his tenants, or even the Prince Regent amongst his subjects.

“You make too much of what was but a small service, Hull. You were always a loyal sort, and I do what I can for men I can count on.”

“You can count on me, Tiger, like you always done. You saved me from the topping cheat, and I don’t forget it. Anything you need, Tim ’Ull’s your man.”

“Right now he needs a bed. And a doctor,” Isabella interjected firmly. Alec was leaning heavily against her, and despite the seemingly easy tone of his conversation with Hull, she could tell by the increasing amount of weight she was supporting that he was getting weaker. Listening to him, looking at him, one would never guess that he could barely stand up. Except for the bandage on his head, and the great quantity of drying blood that adorned his person, he looked and sounded much as always. She supposed that not showing weakness was a survival mechanism he had perfected in his days as one of the rag-tag plague of homeless children who haunted London’s streets.

“I’ve no need for a bloody sawbones. ’Tis naught but a graze.”

She looked up at him impatiently. “Don’t be a fool, Alec. Please send for a doctor, Mr. Hull.”

“Isabella …” If there was a warning note to that, she chose to ignore it.

“Either you have a doctor look at your head or I wash my hands of you! Do you hear me, you great looby?” Her eyes flashed at him. It was past time for such foolishness on the part of a full-grown man.

Either the fierceness of her voice or the novelty of being addressed as a looby carried the day.

“Have it your own way, then. But I tell you there is no need.” He sounded grumpy.

“Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I insist. A doctor, please, Mr. Hull. And we’ve left a horse tied to your stable door. If there’s someone who could see to the creature …”

“O’ course, o’ course! Liddy! Eh, there, Liddy!”

A tall, thin woman with black hair and a heavily lined face appeared in the doorway to the taproom.

“There’s no need at all to shout, Timmy,” she said reprovingly. “I can ’ear, you know.”

“Ah, you’re deaf as a piece o’ wood, woman,” Tim muttered, then added more loudly, “This ’ere’s—”

“I’m an old friend of Tim’s,” Alec interrupted, smiling rather thinly at the woman. “As you can see, we’ve met with a bit of an accident. Tim’s kindly promised us the use of a room till we recover a bit.”

“We’re full up,” the woman protested, fixing Tim with disapproving eyes. “The rooms ’ave all been bespoke for weeks.”

“Not for ’im, we ain’t.” Tim did not wilt under that daunting look. “Do you go send Mick for the doctor as fast as ’e can run, then turn the big room at the top of the stairs out for ’im and ’is lady. And don’t give me no more o’ your sass, woman.”

“Sass my backside,” Liddy sniffed by way of a reply, but with another sour look that encompassed the three of them, she left the room, presumably to do as Tim had told her.

Tim looked at Alec apologetically. “When I wed ’er, she was as biddable a lass as a man could want. Wedlock changes ’em, I swear it does.” Then he glanced at Isabella, whose arm was tight around Alec’s waist. To outward appearances it was a rather loving pose; Hull could not know that Isabella was all that kept Alec upright. What Hull saw was a slender female who was well enough but no beauty, certainly not the flashy kind of ladybird the Tiger usually had in keeping. This chit was both dishevelled and downright dirty, her brownish hair tumbling around her pointy, dirt-streaked face, her disappointing bosoms half-bared by a gown that looked like it had been made for someone who could fill it out to better advantage. She was bossy, too, spoke right up like she had the right, in a prissy kind of accent like she thought she was better than she was. Not the kind of female the Tiger usually had in keeping at all.