The clock downstairs struck one. The inn was quiet. Maidenhead’s best hostelry didn’t encourage carousing.
On wobbly legs, she straightened. She couldn’t return to her room. If James pursued her, that’s where he’d look. Right now, one more touch could prove her downfall.
The inn had a small garden that she’d discovered this afternoon while awaiting news of the ambush. Perhaps fresh air and solitude would offer a new perspective, and she’d stop wanting to crumple into a sobbing heap because she’d hurt a good man.
Greengrass huddled into the shadows in the Royal Swan’s garden. It was a perishing cold night and he clutched his thick coat around him, although a man of his bulk was insulated against the chill.
Who would have thought that Lord Leath turned out as slippery as his late-lamented uncle? Now Greengrass had lost the diary that had provided such a steady income. He was richer by a miserly fifty quid and piles of useless paper. Someone would pay for this unfortunate situation. Every penny he was owed.
It would be safer to retreat to his cottage in Lampton Wyck, but after that scuffle in the alley, he was angry. He’d easily tracked Leath and those other hoity-toity sods to the Royal Swan. Where else would men with such sense of their own entitlement stay?
Since escaping through the tunnels, he’d watched the inn. It would be easier to track his prey from inside, but even he wasn’t that cocky. Still he’d learned a lot about Leath and his cronies. Including the fact that they traveled with a woman.
He’d tipped a maidservant a penny to tell him about the rich gentlemen and their doxy. The whore had her own room and dressed like a nun. That didn’t gull Greengrass. A woman alone with a pack of men was at best, mistress to one, at worst, a strumpet brought to amuse the lot. After working for Lord Neville, Greengrass knew the peccadillos of the so-called upper classes.
The chit was his obvious target. Leath might cheat a poor man, but he’d balk at abandoning a female to a villain’s mercy.
Greengrass had paid the obliging maid another sixpence to smuggle him up the servants’ staircase. He’d glimpsed the slut as she went to dinner with her keepers. A looker. Rich men had the brass to pay for beauty. And that air of innocence never came cheap.
Aye, he could see why a self-satisfied ass like Leath wanted to tumble this wench.
Greengrass’s problem was getting his hands on her. If she slept alone, he could break into the inn and abduct her. But odds were that at least one lucky bloke shared her bed.
He’d asked the maid to keep an eye on the doxy. That hadn’t cost him anything but a quick tup against the stable wall. The girl was a plain thing with a wall eye and no acquaintance with soap and water, but Greengrass wasn’t fussy. As he emptied himself inside her, he’d found himself thinking about the pretty blond piece instead of the sturdy maid with her heavy thighs and grasping hands. The Fairbrother men might be a rum lot, but by God, they had excellent taste in trollops.
As if Satan himself eavesdropped on his thoughts, the door from the inn silently opened—no squeaky hinges at the Royal Swan—and a slender figure slipped into the walled garden. Unable to believe his luck, Greengrass remained hidden as the girl wandered into the moonlight. Pale hair. A dress he wouldn’t keep for a dish clout. Graceful.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face and he gave a low hum of anticipation.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The cold made Nell shiver, but she couldn’t go inside and face James again. Not until she felt strong enough to resist him. Wiping roughly at her tears, she stepped onto the moonlit grass.
Could she follow her ultimatum through? How could she stay if he persisted in this ludicrous quest to marry her? She recoiled from more than just the prospect of conflict. She knew herself well enough to recognize that somewhere, someday, he’d find the words to persuade her. And she couldn’t do that to him.
A rustle in the shrubbery interrupted her frantic thoughts. She retreated a step, then exhaled with relief when a lithe black shape darted through the shadows. Tonight the Royal Swan’s cat was on the prowl.
The cat stopped to study her with unblinking eyes. Nell leaned down and made encouraging sounds, rubbing her fingers together. The animal flicked its tail in disdain and disappeared into the bushes.
Nell straightened with a sigh. She was feeling so low that even a stray feline’s rejection stung.
Another rustle. The cat must have company on its midnight revels. This garden would offer good hunting. Like everything at the Royal Swan, it was well kept, but filled with hidden bowers.
A cloud passed over the moon and the fairyland garden turned dark. Nell wrapped her arms around herself.
A twig cracked to her left. Her nerves pricked. That didn’t sound like a cat. With a quicker step, she turned toward the inn.
A huge hand covered her face, while a brutal arm clamped across her stomach and slammed her backward into a massive body. “Not so fast, lass.”
She struggled, but her screams emerged only as muffled squeaks. She kicked hard at the man’s shins.
“Stop that, you little bitch.” The low, menacing voice with its flat accent was unfamiliar. He jammed his arm against her so hard that she retched. Pain stopped her wriggling.
“That’s better. Do what I say or I’ll shoot. Do you understand?”
Her nostrils flared as she struggled for air.
“Understand?” he barked.