“You take care of me.” It felt like an accusation.
He clenched his jaw. Didn’t she know if he could, he would present himself to Sir Hawkins and offer his hand in marriage? But that was the problem. Marriage was all he could offer. He had no grand house or servants. His profession was dangerous and unpredictable.
“Yes, I can fend off men who would do you harm, but I can’t buy you frocks at the best modiste in London. I can’t furnish you with a lady’s maid. I don’t know if I could even afford your book habit.”
She waved a hand. “None of that is important.”
He caught her hand and brought it to his chest. “It is, Victoria. You don’t know because you’ve never experienced hunger or poverty or privations. I have, and it only takes a week, a day, an hour to be cast out with nothing.”
She curled her fingers around his hand and shook her head, her mouth tight. “Happiness must be worth something, and you care about me, don’t you?”
“I would not have you cast out of your parents’ house and society. You would come to hate me for it, and I couldn’t bear it. That is why what has happened here must stay a secret between us. But know this, I will forever hold the memory close to my heart.”
The moment of her capitulation reflected in the slump of her shoulders and the shimmer of tears in her eyes before she looked toward the fire. Even though it was for the best and what had to happen, it still hurt. It was not the pain of a punch that would fade, but the ache of a wound that would fester and never heal.
“What will we do now?” she asked in a small voice bereft of her usual bravado. He hated that he had stripped her of any of her confidence.
“We will have our tea and then head to the village. There we will seek news and sustenance and decide our next move.”
In silence, they drank the bitter tea from chipped earthenware mugs. The sugar added a slight sweetness but also an unpleasant grit. Victoria didn’t complain.
“May I suggest you reassemble your disguise?”
She gave a sharp nod, tied the padding around her waist and hips, then presented her back so Garrick could help tighten her stays and fasten the sturdy, plain dress. He was careful to make minimal contact with her skin, afraid he would be too weak to resist laying kisses along the path he covered. By the time he finished, his fingers trembled like a drunkard denied blue ruin.
They put the cottage to rights for the next man or woman who might seek haven there. Cloak pulled close around him, he stepped into the snow. Victoria hesitated in the doorway. She was likely to end up cold and damp before the day was done, but there was no reason for her to start with sodden hems.
“May I?” He held out his arms.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
She rolled her eyes, signaling the return of a portion of her spirit, and harrumphed. “A Banbury tale if I ever heard one. Women have limited choices, and ladies even fewer.”
She gestured him closer, and he swept her into a cradle hold. Her hurt had turned to anger. He preferred her spitting fire. His shoulders relaxed despite the burden he carried—both physical and metaphorical. He trudged through the snow toward his horse.
“Someday you’ll thank me,” he murmured.
She bucked in his arms. The movement caught him off guard, and he half dropped her, thankfully not headfirst, into the snow. “I will never thank you for being a coldhearted arse.”
Anger was one thing. What radiated off Victoria was pure fury.
Garrick was not sure what to say, so he said nothing. If her jerky movements as she mounted behind him were any indication, he had chosen poorly, but any explanation he bumbled through now was bound to make things worse.
They plodded toward the village. Garrick tried not to focus on the simmering, silent woman sitting close behind him. Danger stalked them. His job was to protect Victoria, not to offer something she couldn’t accept and he couldn’t afford. Like his heart.
The woods were silent, their horse’s hoof falls muffled. They cleared the tree line, and the village of Upton Heath came into view. It boasted a blacksmith, a baker, and a large common house with an inn. It was on a well-traveled thoroughfare and was a common post for changing horses for the coaches. It reminded him painfully of the small village he had grown up in.
His destination was the baker. The man also responsible for maintaining the cottage. He dismounted and helped Victoria down, running a critical eye over her. The dowdy dress and padding were in place and offered some camouflage, but without the veiled hat, she was pretty enough to draw notice. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and curly wisps of hair framed her face. They couldn’t tarry longer than necessary else someone was sure to note her passing.
“I’m sure the inn offers a suitable breakfast and perhaps even passable coffee.” She looked longingly in that direction.
“I’m sure it does.” He ducked into the baker’s and took a deep breath.
The baker’s wife in his childhood village used to hand out overdone buns and bread from the back door to the village children. He remembered tearing off the burnt edges and devouring the still-warm treats before running off to play. His heart crimped.
The baker emerged from a back room. His apron and hands were dusted with flour, and his face flushed with the heat from the ovens. “What can I do for you and your missus, sir?”
“A loaf of white and two sticky buns,” Garrick said. The man nodded, but before he turned away, Garrick added. “London is harsh this time of year, is it not?”
The innocuous comment wiped the smile from the baker’s face. Without replying, he disappeared into the back room. When he returned, the bread and buns were wrapped in paper. Garrick pressed coins into the baker’s palm. The man didn’t bother to count them, only slipped them into a pocket on his apron.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Nothing. Thank you for your service.” Garrick and the man exchanged a nod on Garrick’s way out the door.
“Let’s find out how passable the coffee is.” He led them to the inn. The common room was warm and smoky and welcoming. Even better, the coffee was better than passable. The strong, hot brew sharpened his senses.
Garrick passed Victoria a sticky bun while he bit into his. It was delicious. Smoothing the wrapping, Garrick ran a practiced eye over the message written in tiny coded letters along the side. It wasn’t a difficult cipher. Garrick crumpled the paper and tossed it into the flames, watching it flare.
Something didn’t feel right. He had expected to come across evidence of men tracking them, but even on their headlong rush through London to the cottage, he hadn’t sensed anyone following them.
“Your father received my warning but found nothing amiss at the London residence. As a precaution, your parents have set off for the house party a day early, and I’m to deliver you to them at Danbury. From there, you will travel to the Barclay’s manor with no one the wiser.” He took a sip of coffee and looked at her over the rim of his cup.
“No one the wiser to the attack or the fact we engaged in carnal relations?”
He sputtered on a swallow, the coffee burning his lungs.
She smiled sweetly before taking a bite of her roll. A dollop of glaze was at the corner of her mouth, and she swiped her tongue over the bit of sweetness. His knees felt unsteady even though he was sitting.