The Duke’s Cavalier (The Duke’s Guard #15)
Chapter One
Dillon Flaherty stood a few feet away from the broken carriage wheel. The determined lad’s protective stance in front of the door had him wondering who was inside the carriage. It must be someone important to the lad for him to challenge someone nearly thrice his size.
The lad’s face was partially covered beneath his battered hat. Was he running from someone? Flaherty would show the lad that he was not a threat, but first he had to disarm him.
Pitching his voice low, Flaherty murmured, “Ye don’t want to shoot me, lad. Hand me yer weapon.”
The young man did not lower the blunderbuss aimed at Flaherty’s chest. His da’s oft-used caution echoed through his head: ’Tis always wise to take your enemy’s full measure and don’t make a move that could trigger an unwanted reaction!
It went against Flaherty’s grain to wait for the lad to make the first move, but he had no desire to get shot this early in the morning.
Flaherty narrowed his gaze, and his blood ran cold. The lad’s finger was on the trigger. Likely he knew how to fire the weapon, but did he have the courage? The breeze stilled, and in the cool morning air, Flaherty swore he could hear the young man’s uneven breathing.
Flaherty studied him. From the cut of the lad’s threadbare brown coat, he wasn’t starving.
It was the younger man’s pointed chin that seemed to be at odds with the fullness of the frame tucked inside of his coat.
Either the lad was spending every bit of coin he had to eat, or he was wearing some kind of padding to make himself appear larger as a deterrent to ward off unsavory types. If so, why the disguise?
The breeze stilled, and yet the lad made no move.
Flaherty studied what he could see of the boy’s face for a reaction that would tip him off to what he intended to do.
He had a slightly pointed chin—smooth cheeks, no whiskers.
His gaze dipped lower to a surprisingly full set of lips.
Lower still to a slender neck with no visible…
Bloody hell!
“Show me your hands.” The young man’s voice cracked. “Palms facing me!”
The lad could not be more than five and ten summers, which could explain the lack of whiskers.
But if the slender chin and the mouth of a temptress meant what Flaherty feared, the lad and whoever was inside the carriage were going to be trouble!
As his mind put the odd pieces of the puzzle together, his gut screamed not to trust what he saw—but to trust in what he felt.
He swallowed the string of curses and held his tongue.
Before he unmasked the lad’s charade, the wail of an infant stopped him.
But it was the accompanying feminine-sounding gasp coming from inside the carriage that decided Flaherty’s course of action.
“I’ll keep me hands at me sides if it’s all the same to ye.
” He took a step forward and froze when the blunderbuss wobbled.
“Did yer da not teach ye if ye pick up a weapon, ye’d best be prepared to use it? ”
The silence irritated Flaherty, but it was the morning chill and wail of the infant that spurred him to act. He advanced. The lad took a step backward, promptly fell on his arse, and the gun went off!
Flaherty dove to the side and swore a blue streak.
His side burned, and his temper shot straight to boiling as he sprang to his feet.
The indignity of misjudging the lad, and getting shot for his trouble by someone half his age, pushed him over the edge.
The dark side of his temper took hold of him.
He grabbed the blunderbuss, tugged the lad to his feet, and shook him until his hat fell off.
Flaherty growled, “Bloody hell!”
Twin gasps of shock echoed in the still, early morning air. The faint scent of lavender surrounded Flaherty as a lock of angel-blonde hair got tangled around his wrist.
The lad—nay, lass—squirmed against Flaherty’s hold. “Let go of me!”
Flaherty stared into blue-gray eyes that held a hint of panic, and a healthy dose of temper. “Are ye on the run from the law?” he demanded, swiftly working to extricate his wrist.
Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.
God help him, her insolence and temper had him reacting instinctively. His heart thundered in his chest as parts a good distance south of that idiotic organ had him tamping down hard on his considerable control. ’Twas always the fiery lasses that snagged his attention.
Flaherty had no time for that now! He had a volatile situation on his hands.
A broken carriage wheel, and someone with a very young infant—judging from the sound of its cry—inside the conveyance who needed his help.
The lass dressed as a lad, wielding a weapon without any bloody idea how to use it, could hardly be holding them against their will. Could she?
From the pain making itself known with a vengeance, he wondered if it were gravel instead of lead balls embedded in his side. He’d leapt to the side in time to avoid the full force of the shot, but not the scatter shot.
Flaherty felt the telltale warmth of his life’s blood near the wound but chose to ignore it.
He needed to gain full control of the situation.
He’d been shot before, though not with a blunderbuss.
He hoped the injury was superficial. If it had nicked an artery, he’d have felt a gush of blood.
The last thing he needed was to arrive at the manor and have to listen to O’Malley demanding to know how Flaherty managed to get himself shot.
Garahan had a perverse sense of humor and would remark about the location of the wound.
It was low enough on Flaherty’s side, just above his hip, that Garahan would probably claim Flaherty had been shot in the arse!
Of his two cousins, who along with Flaherty comprised the detachment of the Duke of Wyndmere’s private guard stationed at Summerfield Chase, Garahan would be more reasonable.
Garahan would no doubt interrogate Flaherty, wanting to know why he let his guard down.
Then he would demand to know what had distracted Flaherty from doing his job.
What mattered now was how he handled the rest of this situation.
The pair obviously needed help, were likely on the run from an untenable situation.
If he brought them back to Summerfield Chase, he would be the third member of the duke’s guard stationed there to bring an injured woman, and quite possibly trouble, to the baron’s door. Trouble he had yet to identify.
Summerfield had been more than amenable when it came time to protect and defend the women the men in his guard brought to the manor for safety.
Moreover, the baron had proven his mettle a few years earlier when, despite a head injury, his love for Lady Phoebe had had him riding with the rescue party arriving in time to thwart her abduction.
Flaherty hoped the baron would be as understanding this time, too.
Summerfield’s worry about the baroness and the babe she carried made his temperament a bit unpredictable as of late.
Flaherty knew that he had to act quickly, as the shock of being shot was wearing off.
The dull pain in his side slashed through him, and he clamped his jaw down hard.
Had it nicked the bone? Setting that worry aside for the moment, he concentrated on the situation unfolding in front of him.
Flaherty would need his wits about him if he were to escort the women—and babe—to safety.
One look at the lass glaring at him, and the last thread of his patience snapped!
He needed to find out who was inside the carriage and how old the babe was.
It sounded far too young to be traveling.
Damned if the need to turn the lass over his knee cut right through his need to protect and defend her.
Blood loss must be affecting his brain.
“Answer the question,” he growled. “Else I’ll tie ye up and lay ye facedown over me saddle and deliver ye to Summerfield Chase that way.
His lordship will be wanting a word with ye.
He’ll no doubt send for the constable, who will be wanting an explanation as to why ye held up—or abducted—whoever is inside the carriage. ”
She jolted at the mention of the baron’s home.
Was she acquainted with Summerfield? When she remained silent, too many possibilities—none of them good—occurred to him.
It set off the anger welling up inside of him.
He clamped down hard on it. “Have ye no compassion? No thought to how dangerous it is to a babe so young to be out in the chill morning air? By the sound of its cry, the poor thing is less than a fortnight old!”
“How would you know?”
Ah, he thought, the lass had found her tongue at last and decided to flay him with the sharp edge of it.
“Pippa,” a soft voice called from inside the coach. “Please answer the man and apologize for shooting him. We need to see to his injury, and find somewhere warm to seek shelter.”
Flaherty wrapped a hand around the shooter’s upper arm.
He held her against him, so she could not escape, or wrest her weapon from him.
Ready to demand information from the other woman, he turned toward the carriage, and the words shriveled up on his tongue.
The sight of the pale-as-flour, fragile-looking woman was a worry.
She was cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a thick woolen shawl to her breast. His protective instincts screamed at him to hurry, while his mind sorted through a number of explanations as to why the two were traveling together.