Helen Dickson - A Traitor's Touch

Immediately one of the youths shoved her shoulder and she found herself stumbling backwards, but not before she’d made another grab for her hat as it went sailing through the air. Jamming it on to her head, she glowered at them, ready to do battle if they attempted to take it again. Her jaw slackened as she stared amazed by the sight of the three youths suddenly backing off and pressing themselves against the wall.

A tall figure in a swirling black cloak strode into their midst. Large and powerful, a cocked hat set jauntily sideways on his head, she recognised him as the man Simon she had met on the heath the previous night. Henrietta was more unsettled than she was prepared to show by his sudden appearance. Now, in broad daylight, he bore a striking resemblance to the pirates whose exploits she had relished when safely between the covers of a book. This man had no black patch over his eye or gold rings in his ears, but these details apart, he seemed the living image of a gentleman of fortune.

‘On your way, the lot of you,’ he barked, brushing them aside as best he could. ‘I’m sure there must be chores to occupy you other than abusing others.’

He watched the scrambling departure of the youths before turning to the individual who found herself meeting eyes of deep blue set in a hard and unsmiling face.

‘I thought it was you,’ Simon remarked sharply. ‘You appear to be in a spot of bother.’

Henrietta’s heart lurched in her breast. She was torn between resentment because he’d refused to let her go with him to Scotland and relief that he’d rescued her from possible harm at the hands of the three youths.

Observing the lad’s expression of concern, Simon said, ‘You need to watch lads like that. They clamour around and then they’ll suddenly disappear—along with your purse. I don’t doubt that half of them will end up dangling on the end of a hangman’s rope one day. I was about to get myself a bite to eat. Would you care to join me?’

Having recovered her composure, Henrietta raised cool, bright eyes holding more than a measure of distrust to his. She hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning her on the heath. Having witnessed her humiliation at the hands of those louts, he was infuriatingly sublime in his amusement. If her situation weren’t so dire, she’d cheerfully tell him to go to the devil.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she replied sullenly. ‘My mother told me never to talk to strangers.’

‘Your mother was right, but you were happy to talk to me last night when you thought I could be of use.’

‘That was last night. Things look different in daylight. I don’t want any handouts.’

‘I wasn’t offering to pay for your breakfast. I merely thought you might like some company, but it seems I was mistaken. The least you could do is thank me for getting you out of a scrape.’

‘I didn’t ask you to,’ she retorted ungraciously. ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Is that so?’ His eyes did a quick sweep of the small, slight form in ill-fitting garb before him, noting the pathetically shorn hair of an indeterminate colour and badly stained breeches. There was an air and manner about him that held his attention. ‘By the looks of you someone needs to take you in hand.’ His jaw set squarely, he turned away. The lad was proving to be a headache. And yet...those snapping green eyes...the soft mouth and curve to the cheek...

Simon! an inner voice commanded. Enough! It will be your downfall if you pursue this train of thought.

It was indeed enough—but even so he found himself turning back. He glanced at her horse. ‘Get your horse and come with me if you want some breakfast—before those young ruffians come back and finish what they started.’

Turning on his heel and leading his horse, he headed for the back of the nearest inn. Racked with indecision, Henrietta glared at his retreating broad back, the hollow ache in her middle reminding her how hungry she was. Seeing her three abusers loitering on the street corner still eyeing her with malicious intent, though it chafed her to do so she grabbed her horse’s bridle and hurried after him.

Leaving her mount to be fed and watered in the tavern’s stable, she was almost treading on his heels when he crossed the threshold into the large and welcoming common room. It was adorned with gleaming copper and brass with a number of tables disposed around the room. A good fire burned in the hearth and a number of serving girls tripped about bearing loaded trays.

There was a stir of interest among them when their eyes lighted on Simon’s handsome form and their eyes boldly appraised him. His expression softened as his gaze swept over one of them—a pretty young girl, her loosely laced bodice barely containing her ripe breasts—and he inclined his head in the briefest of bows. The way he regarded them told Henrietta that this was a man who enjoyed female company. From the flirtatious fluttering of the women’s eyelashes, it was obvious they had fallen prey to his charm.

‘What it is to be so popular,’ Henrietta commented without bothering to conceal her sarcasm as she followed him across the room.

‘Being reasonably handsome—or so I’ve been told—has its advantages, Henry.’ There was something about the amused tilt of his eyebrows, the way the serving girls melted a pathway before him and the sudden mischievous twinkle in his eyes that made her laugh.

‘And I have no doubt many of the ladies surround you like moths around a candle.’

The liquid blue of his eyes deepened. ‘Many moths, but no butterflies—and I have to say that I am not partial to moths.’

The landlady of the inn paused in her work to watch the two cross the room where they settled at a table in the shadow of the wide chimneypiece, where they ordered breakfast and cold beer.

‘You’ve ridden quite a distance,’ Simon said, removing his hat and cloak and dropping them on the seat beside him.

Reluctantly Henrietta did the same before sitting back and availing herself of the chance to take account of her companion. His vigour seemed to fill the room with such robust masculine virility that it took her breath, because she had grown accustomed to a life with her guardian, a diminutive older man. Her gaze leisurely observed his lean yet muscular thighs and she allowed it to wander upwards over his breeches to his narrow waist and powerful shoulders, her eyes settling on his dark features. He had nothing wanting in looks or bearing. He wore a blue jacket and black breeches above his riding boots and his tumble of raven-black glossy curls was secured at the nape.

Settling back in his seat, his long, lean body was stretched out at the table pushed slightly forward to accommodate his long legs. But there was nothing ungraceful about him. The muscles of his arms and legs were sinewy and strong, and finely honed. He regarded her with some amusement, smiling, his teeth very white against the tanned flesh of his face, but there was a disturbing glint in his blue eyes.

She noticed that he was studying her with intent and she was aware of the tension and nervousness in herself. Of course anyone else might have seen past her disguise and laid bare her secret, but with this man, she could only surmise that he was contemplating the disgusting state of her shaggy hair—the soot she had rubbed in to darken it having run and stained her face—and dirty breeches. She avoided his eye and vowed to remember her false identity at all costs. So far there had been no hostility in his voice when he addressed her and she must take care not to raise his suspicions. As a man of the world, he would be familiar with the subtle differences in bone structure between men and women, and he might have noticed that she was abnormal. If he did, fortunately he did not press the matter.