A Lady by Midnight (2 page)

A woman screamed.

Kate threw her weight to one side. The horse’s hooves landed just to her left. With a squalling hiss of the brake, a cartwheel screeched to halt—inches from crushing her leg.

The parcel of sheet music landed some yards distant. Her “plan” was now a mud-stained, wheel-rutted smear on the street.

“Devil take you,” the driver cursed her from the box, brandishing his horsewhip. “A fine little witch you are. Near overset my whole cart.”

“I—I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”

He cracked his whip against the cobblestones. “Out of my way, then. You unnatural little—”

As he raised his whip for another strike, Kate flinched and ducked.

No blow came.

A man stepped between her and the cart. “Threaten her again,” she heard him warn the driver in a low, inhuman growl, “and I will whip the flesh from your miserable bones.”

Chilling, those words. But effective. The cart swiftly rolled away.

As strong arms pulled her to her feet, Kate’s gaze climbed a veritable mountain of man. She saw black, polished boots. Buff breeches stretched over granite thighs. A distinctive red wool officer’s coat.

Her heart jumped. She
knew
this coat. She’d probably sewn the brass buttons on these cuffs. This was the uniform of the Spindle Cove militia. She was in familiar arms. She was saved. And when she lifted her head, she was guaranteed to find a friendly face, unless . . .

“Miss Taylor?”

Unless.

Unless it was
him.

“Corporal Thorne,” she whispered.

On another day, Kate could have laughed at the irony. Of all the men to come to her rescue, it
would
be this one.

“Miss Taylor, what the devil are you doing here?”

At his rough tone, all her muscles pulled tight. “I . . . I came into town to purchase new sheet music for Miss Elliott, and to . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to mention calling on Miss Paringham. “But I dropped my parcel, and now I’ve missed the stage home. Silly me.”

Silly, foolish, shame-marked, unwanted me.

“And now I’m truly stuck, I’m afraid. If only I’d brought a little more money, I could afford a room for the evening, then go back to Spindle Cove tomorrow.”

“You’ve no money?”

She turned away, unable to bear the chastisement in his gaze.

“What were you thinking, traveling all this distance alone?”

“I hadn’t any choice.” Her voice caught. “I am completely alone.”

His grip firmed on her arms. “I’m here. You’re not alone now.”

Hardly poetry, those words. A simple statement of fact. They scarcely shared the same alphabet as kindness. If true comfort were a nourishing, wholemeal loaf, what he offered her were a few stale crumbs.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She was a starving girl, and she hadn’t the dignity to refuse.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed, choking back a sob. “You’re not going to like this.”

And with that, Kate fell into his immense, rigid, unwilling embrace—and wept.

B
loody hell.

She burst into tears. Right there in the street, for God’s sake. Her lovely face screwed up. She bent forward until her forehead met his chest, and then she heaved a loud, wrenching sob.

Then a second. And a third.

His gelding danced sideways, and Thorne shared the beast’s unease. Given a choice between watching Miss Kate Taylor weep and offering his own liver to carrion birds, he would have had his knife out and sharpened before the first tear rolled down her face.

He clucked his tongue softly, which did some good toward calming the horse. It had no effect on the girl. Her slender shoulders convulsed as she wept into his coat. His hands remained fixed on her arms.

In a desperate gesture, he slid them up. Then down.

No help.

What’s happened?
he wanted to ask.
Who’s hurt you? Who can I maim or kill for distressing you this way?

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away after some minutes had passed.

“Why?”

“For weeping all over you. Forcing you to hold me. I know you must hate it.” She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Her nose and eyes were red. “I mean, not that you don’t like holding women. Everyone in Spindle Cove knows you like women. I’ve heard far more than I care to hear about your—”

She paled and stopped talking.

Just as well.

He took the horse’s lead in one hand and laid the other hand to Miss Taylor’s back, guiding her out of the street. Once they reached the side of the lane, he looped his horse’s reins about a post and turned his sights toward making her comfortable. There wasn’t anywhere for her to sit. No bench, no crate.

This disturbed him beyond reason.

His gaze went to a tavern across the street—the sort of establishment he’d never allow her to enter—but he was seriously considering crossing the lane, toppling the first available drunk off his seat, and dragging the vacated chair out for her. A woman shouldn’t weep while standing. It didn’t seem right.

“Please, can’t you just loan me a few shillings?” she asked. “I’ll find an inn for the night, and I won’t trouble you any further.”

“Miss Taylor, I can’t lend you money to pass the night alone in a coaching inn. It’s not safe.”

“I have no choice but to stay. There won’t be another stage back to Spindle Cove until morning.”

Thorne looked at his gelding. “I’ll hire you a horse, if you can ride.”

She shook her head. “I never had any lessons.”

Curse it. How was he going to remedy this situation? He easily had the money to hire another horse, but nowhere near enough coin in his pocket for a private carriage. He
could
put her up in an inn—but damned if he would let her stay alone.

A dangerous thought visited him, sinking talons into his mind.

He could stay
with
her.

Not in a tawdry way, he told himself. Just as her protector. He could find a damned place for her to sit down, as a start. He could see that she had food and drink and warm blankets. He could stand watch while she slept and make certain nothing disturbed her. He could be there when she woke.

After all these months of frustrated longing, maybe that would be enough.

Enough? Right.

“Good heavens.” She took a sudden step back.

“What is it?”

Her gaze dropped and she swallowed hard. “Some part of you is
moving.
”

“No, it’s not.” Thorne conducted a quick, silent assessment of his personal equipment. He found all to be under regulation. On another occasion—one with fewer tears involved—this degree of closeness would have undoubtedly roused his lust. But today she was affecting him rather higher in his torso. Tying his guts in knots and poking at whatever black, smoking cinder remained of his heart.

“Your satchel.” She indicated the leather pouch slung crossways over his chest. “It’s . . . wriggling.”

Oh. That. In all the commotion, he’d nearly forgotten the creature.

He reached beneath the leather flap and withdrew the source of the wriggling, holding it up for her to see.

“It’s just this.”

And suddenly everything was different. It was like the whole world took a knock and tilted at a fresh angle. In less time than it took a man’s heart to skip, Miss Taylor’s face transformed. The tears were gone. Her elegant, sweeping eyebrows arched in surprise. Her eyes candled to life—glowed, really, like two stars. Her lips fell apart in a delighted gasp.

“Oh.” She pressed one hand to her cheek. “Oh, it’s a
puppy.
”

She smiled. Lord, how she smiled. All because of this wriggling ball of snout and fur that was as likely to piss on her slippers as chew them to bits.

She reached forward. “May I?”

As if he could refuse. Thorne placed the pup in her arms.

She fawned and cooed over it like a baby. “Where did you come from, sweeting?”

“A farm nearby,” Thorne answered. “Thought I’d take him back to the castle. Been needing a hound.”

She cocked her head and peered at the pup. “
Is
he a hound?”

“Partly.”

Her fingers traced a rust-colored patch over the pup’s right eye. “I’d suppose he’s partly many things, isn’t he? Funny little dear.”

She lifted the pup in both hands and looked it nose-to-nose, puckering her lips to make a little chirping noise. The dog licked her face.

Lucky cur.

“Was that mean Corporal Thorne keeping you in a dark, nasty satchel?” She gave the pup a playful shake. “You like it so much better out here with me, don’t you? Of course you do.”

The dog yipped. She laughed and drew it close to her chest, bending over its furry neck.

“You are perfect,” he heard her whisper. “You are just exactly what I needed today.” She stroked the pup’s fur. “Thank you.”

Thorne felt a sharp twist in his chest. Like something rusted and bent, shaking loose. This girl had a way of doing that—making him
feel
. She always had, even years upon years in the past. That long-ago time seemed to fall beyond the reach of her earliest memories. A true mercy for her.

But Thorne remembered. He remembered it all.

He cleared his throat. “We’d best be on the road. It’ll be near dark by the time we reach Spindle Cove.”

She tore her attention from the dog and gave Thorne a curious glance. “But how?”

“You’ll ride with me. The both of you. I’ll take you up on my saddle. You’ll carry the dog.”

As if consulting all the concerned parties, she turned to the horse. Then to the dog. Lastly, she lifted her gaze to Thorne’s. “You’re certain we’ll fit?”

“Just.”

She bit her lip, looking unsure.

Her instinctive resistance to the idea was plain. And understandable. Thorne wasn’t overeager to put his plan into action, either. Three hours astride a horse with Miss Kate Taylor nestled between his thighs? Torture of the keenest sort. But he could see no better way to have her swiftly and safely home.

He could do this. If he’d lasted a year with her in the same tiny village, he could withstand a few hours’ closeness.

“I won’t leave you here,” he said. “It’ll have to be done.”

Her mouth quirked in a droll, self-conscious smile. It was reassuring to see, and at the same time devastating.

“When you put it that way, I find myself unable to refuse.”

For God’s sake, don’t say that.

“Thank you,” she added. She laid a gentle touch to his sleeve.

For your own sake, don’t do that.

He pulled away from her touch, and she looked hurt. Which made him want to soothe her, but he didn’t dare try.

“Mind the pup,” he said.

Thorne helped her into the saddle, boosting her at the knee, rather than the thigh, as might have been more efficient. He mounted the gelding, taking the reins in one hand and keeping one arm about her waist. As he nudged the horse into a walk, she fell against him, soft and warm. His thighs bracketed hers.

Her hair smelled of clover and lemon. The scent rushed all through his senses before he could stop it.
Damn, damn, damn.
He could discourage her from talking to him, touching him. He could keep her distracted with a dog. But how could he prevent her from being shaped like a woman and smelling like paradise?

Never mind the beatings, the lashings, the years of prison . . .

Thorne knew, without a doubt, the next three hours would be the harshest punishment of his life.

Chapter Three

T
he strangest thing happened during their first hour on horseback. Before Kate’s eyes, Corporal Thorne transformed into a completely different man.

A good-looking one.

The first time she stole a glance at him, letting her gaze make the slow, perilous climb from his lapel to his face—she found his appearance just as hard and intimidating as ever. The planes of his face were lit with harsh, late afternoon sun. She cringed.

But then, a few hundred yards farther down the road, she glanced up again as they passed beneath a stand of trees. This time she caught him in profile, and his features were touched with shadow. She fancied him to look . . . not so much forbidding as protective. Strong.

The wall of heated muscle at her back only reinforced this impression. So did the massive arm braced around her middle and the effortless manner with which he guided his horse. No shouting or flicking the crop—just gentle nudges of his heels and the occasional quiet word. Those words shivered through her bones like cello notes, each one settling to a low, arousing thrum at the base of her spine.

She closed her eyes. Deep voices touched her in deep places.

From that point on she kept her gaze stubbornly trained on the road ahead. Nevertheless, her mental image of Thorne continued to change. In her mind’s eye he went from forbidding and stern, to protective and strong, to . . .

Handsome.

Wildly, improbably, outrageously handsome.

No, no. It just couldn’t be. Her imagination was playing tricks. Kate knew many of the working-class women in Spindle Cove fancied Corporal Thorne, but she’d never understood why. His features just didn’t appeal to her—probably because he was usually employing them to send a frown or a glare in her direction. On those rare occasions when he looked in her direction at all.

By the time they traveled another few miles, the puppy had fallen asleep in her arms. Kate had rummaged through her many unpleasant encounters with the man and succeeded in reminding herself that she did not find him attractive.

One more look,
she told herself—just to confirm it.

But when she did glance up, the worst possible thing happened.

She found him looking down at
her
.

Their gazes locked. The piercing blue of his eyes
invaded
her being. To her distinct horror, she gasped aloud. And then she hurried to look somewhere, anywhere else.

Too late.

His features were seared on her imagination. When she closed her eyes, it was as though the back of her eyelids had been painted with that same intense, transfixing blue. Now the idea came to her that he was perhaps the most handsome man she’d ever seen—an assessment with no rational basis whatsoever. None.

Kate realized she had a grave problem.

She was infatuated. Or mildly insane. Possibly both.

Mostly, she was miserable. Her heartbeat was a frantic trill, and close as they were situated on this saddle, she knew he must feel it. For God’s sake, he could likely
hear
it. That racing, prattling beat was spilling all her secrets. She might as well have piped up and said,
I am an affection-starved, addle-brained fool who has never, ever been this close to a man.

Desperate to create some small buffer between them, she straightened her spine and leaned forward.

Just then the horse stepped into a rut, and Kate lurched perilously to one side. She knew the brief, helpless sensation of falling.

And then, just as quickly, she was caught.

Thorne corrected the horse with a flex of both thighs. He pulled on the reins with one hand, and his other arm contracted about her waist. The motions were fluid, strong, and instinctive—as if his whole body were a fist, and he’d gripped her tight with everything.

“I have you,” he said.

Yes, he did. He had her so tight and so close, her corset grommets were probably leaving small round marks on his chest.

“Are we almost there?” she asked.

“No.”

She stifled a plaintive sigh.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, they stopped at a turnpike. Kate waited with the puppy while Thorne purchased a tin pail of milk and three loaves of hot, crusty bread from a cottager. She followed him as he carried this picnic out over a stile and onto a nearby slope.

They sat near one another in meadow ablaze with flowering heather. The fading sunlight touched each tiny purple blossom with orange. Kate folded her shawl into a square, and the puppy circled it several times before settling down to attack its fringe.

Thorne handed her one of the loaves. “It’s not much.”

“It’s perfect.”

The loaf warmed her hands and made her stomach growl. She broke it in two, releasing a cloud of delicious, yeasty steam.

As she ate, the bread seemed to fill some of the yawning stupidity inside her. Sensible behavior was a great deal easier to manage on a full stomach. She could almost bear to look at him again.

“I’m grateful to you,” she said. “I’m not certain I said that earlier, to my shame. But I’m very thankful for your help. I was having the most miserable day of my year, and seeing your face . . .”

“Made it that much worse.”

She laughed in protest. “No. I didn’t mean that.”

“As I recall it, you burst into tears.”

She ducked her chin and gave him a sidelong glance. “Can this be a flash of humor? From the stern, intimidating Corporal Thorne?”

He said nothing. She watched him feed the puppy scraps of bread dipped in milk.

“My goodness,” she said. “What will be your next trick, I wonder? A blink? A
smile
? Don’t laugh, or I may faint dead away.”

Her tone was one of mild teasing, but she meant every word. She was already suffering these fierce pangs of infatuation on the basis of his looks and strength alone. If he revealed a streak of sharp wit in the bargain, she might be in desperate straits.

Fortunately for her vulnerable emotions, he responded with his usual absence of charm. “I’m the lieutenant of the Spindle Cove militia in Lord Rycliff’s absence. You’re a resident of Spindle Cove. It was my duty to help you and see you home safe. That’s all.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m fortunate to fall within the scope of your duty. The mishap with the cart driver truly was my fault. I’d dashed into the lane without looking.”

“What happened beforehand?” he asked.

“What makes you think something happened beforehand?”

“It’s not like you to be that distracted.”

It’s not like you.

Kate chewed her bread slowly. He was correct, perhaps, but what an odd thing for him to say. He avoided her like a sparrow avoids snow. What right had he to decide what was and wasn’t like her?

But she had no one else to talk to, and no reason to hide the truth.

She swallowed her bite of bread and wrapped her arms about her knees. “I went to pay a call on my old schoolmistress. I was hoping to find some information about my origins. My relations.”

He paused. “And did you?”

“No. She wouldn’t help me find them, she said, even if she could. Because they don’t want to be found. I’d always believed I was an orphan, but apparently I . . .” She blinked hard. “It seems I was abandoned. A child of shame, she called me. No one wanted me then, and no one will want me now.”

They both stared at the horizon, where the oozing egg-yolk sun topped the chalky hills.

She risked a glance at him. “You have nothing to say?”

“Nothing fit for a lady’s hearing.”

She smiled. “But I’m no lady, you see. If I know nothing else of my parentage, I can be certain of that.”

Kate lived in the same rooming house as all the Spindle Cove ladies, and a few were true friends, like Lady Rycliff or Minerva Highwood, lately the new Viscountess Payne. But many others forgot her when they left. In their minds, she fit the same pigeonhole as governesses and companions. She would do for company in a pinch, but only if no one better was available. Sometimes they wrote to her for a while. If their valises were too full, they gave her their cast-off frocks.

She touched the muddied skirt of her pink muslin. Ruined, beyond repair.

At her feet, the puppy had crawled halfway into the milk pail and was happily licking his way back out. Kate reached for the dog, turning him on his back for a playful rub.

“We’re kindred spirits, aren’t we?” she asked the pup. “No proper homes to speak of. No illustrious pedigrees. We’re both a bit funny-looking.”

Corporal Thorne made no attempt to contradict her statement. Kate supposed it was what she deserved, going fishing for compliments in a desert.

“What about you, Corporal Thorne? Where were you raised? Have you any family living?”

He was quiet for an oddly long time, given the straightforward nature of her question.

“Born in Southwark, near London. But I haven’t seen the place in almost twenty years.”

She scanned his face. Despite the gravity in his demeanor, she wouldn’t put him much older than thirty. “You must have left home quite young.”

“Not so young as some.”

“Now that the war is over, you’ve no desire to go back?”

“None.” His gaze caught hers for a moment. “The past is better left behind.”

Point taken, Kate supposed, given the disaster that had been her day. She plucked a long blade of grass and dangled it for the puppy to nip and bat. His long, thin tail whipped back and forth with joy.

“What do you mean to call him?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Patch, I suppose.”

“But that’s horrible. You can’t call him Patch.”

“Why not? He has a patch, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why you can’t call him that.” Kate lowered her voice, gathering the pup close and smoothing the splash of rust-colored fur around his right eye. “He’ll be self-conscious. I have a patch, but I shouldn’t like to be named for it. It’s not as though I need a reminder it’s there.”

“This is different. He’s a dog.”

“That doesn’t mean he has no feelings.”

Corporal Thorne made a derisive noise. “He’s a
dog.
”

“You should call him Rex,” she said, tilting her head. “Or Duke. Or Prince, perhaps.”

His gaze slid sideways. “What about that dog says ‘royalty’ to you?”

“Well, nothing.” Kate set the pup down and watched him scamper through the heather. “But that’s the point. You’ll balance his humble origins by giving him a grand-sounding name. It’s called irony, Corporal Thorne. As if I were to call you ‘Cuddles.’ Or if you were to call me Helen of Troy.”

He paused and frowned. “Who’s Helen of Troy?”

Kate almost betrayed her surprise at his question. Fortunately, she caught herself just in time. She had to remind herself that “corporal” was an enlisted officer’s rank, and most of the army’s enlisted men had only a basic education.

She explained, “Helen of Troy was a queen in Ancient Greece. They called hers the face that could launch a thousand ships. She was so beautiful, every man wanted her. They fought whole wars.”

He was quiet for several moments. “So calling you Helen of . . .”

“Helen of Troy.”

“Right. Helen of Troy.” A small furrow formed between his dark eyebrows. “How would that be ironic?”

She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Just look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

Good heavens. Yes, he was. He was looking at her in the same way he did everything. Intensely, and with quiet force. She could all but feel the muscle in his gaze. It unnerved her.

Out of habit, she raised her fingers to her birthmark, but at the last moment she used them to sweep locks of hair behind her ear.

“You can see for yourself, can’t you? It’s ironic because I’m no legendary beauty. No men are fighting battles over me.” She gave a self-effacing smile. “That would require at least two men to be interested. I’m three-and-twenty years old, and so far there hasn’t even been one.”

“You live in a village of women.”

“Spindle Cove’s not entirely women. There are some men. There’s the blacksmith. And the vicar.”

He dismissed these examples with a gruff sound.

“Well . . . there’s
you,
” she said.

He went stone still.

So. Now they came to it. She probably shouldn’t have put him on the spot, but then again—he was the one pressing the topic.

“There’s you,” she repeated. “And you can scarcely bear to share the same air I breathe. I tried to be friendly, when you first arrived in Spindle Cove. That didn’t go over well.”

“Miss Taylor—”

“And it’s not that you’re uninterested in women. I know you’ve had others.”

He blinked, and the small motion made her uneasy in her skin. Amazing. His blink had the same effect as another man pounding his palm with his fist.

“Well, it’s common knowledge,” she said, quietly grinding her toe in the dirt. Digging for courage. “In the village, your . . . arrangements . . . are the subject of far too much speculation. Even if I don’t want to hear about them, I do.”

He rose to his feet and began walking toward the road. His massive shoulders were squared, his heavy paces measured. There he went again, walking away. She’d had enough of this. She was tired of shrugging off his rejections, dismissing the wounded feelings with a good-natured laugh.

“Don’t you see?” She rose and waded through the heather, hurrying to catch the border of his long, monumental shadow. “This is exactly what I mean. If I smile in your direction, you turn the other way. If I find a seat toward your end of the room, you decide you’d rather stand. Do I make you itch, Corporal Thorne? Does the scent of my dusting powder make you sneeze? Or is there something in my demeanor that you find loathsome or terrifying?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then admit it. You avoid me.”

“Very well.” He drew to a stop. “I avoid you.”

“Now tell me why.”

He turned to face her, and his ice-blue eyes burned into hers. But he didn’t say a word.

Kate’s breath left her lungs in a sigh, and her shoulders fell. “Come along,” she coaxed. “Say it. It’s all right. After all these years, I think it would be a mercy to hear someone speak the truth. Just be honest.”