Chapter 10
Not Talking About Last Night
They rode out of the inn yard at a quarter past seven, having rejected offers of breakfast. Last night’s dinner was still lying heavy in their guts and so they bought milk and freshly baked currant buns from the baker and ate them on the road.
Angel knew this was terribly bad manners but only Milly looked at her askance. As the woman’s belly was grumbling loudly enough to hear over the rumble of the wheels and clatter of hooves, she overcame her scruples quickly enough, though.
Mr Cleaver hadn’t said a word to her about last night. Indeed, he’d been as cheerful and easy-going as always. It set her nerves all on end.
To her, the kiss seemed like a living, breathing presence between them. Every time she looked his way, she felt it stirring, waking and eager to burst into flames. So she tried not to look. She might as well have tried not to breathe.
He was just so wonderfully large and masculine, moving with such grace upon the handsome horse, in perfect accord with his mount.
Angel could not help but admire the heavily muscled thighs encased in soft buckskin, and sigh as she took in his splendidly broad back and powerful arms and remember how it had felt last night when his warm hand had slid around her waist and—stop it!
“Well, Miss Baxter, we shall be in Eynsford by noon,” Mr Cleaver said, slowing his horse until the gig was level with him. He glanced down at her, his hazel eyes glimmering with curiosity as he watched her blush.
Angel could feel heat burning her cheeks and prayed he could not figure out what it was she had been daydreaming about. Likely he thought she was embarrassed about last night, regretting her rash behaviour. Thank the Lord he did not know how badly she wanted to do it again.
She met his gaze, putting up her chin defiantly.
“Indeed.”
“Well, are you going to tell me, who is the woman you are searching for?”
Angel swallowed. It had been inevitable, of course, but she did not know what to do.
Somehow, she knew her answer would determine what he did next.
If she refused, he would be a fool to carry on with them.
He had nearly died last night, and he did not know why.
She could no longer pretend it was nothing to do with her.
Why else would those men have attacked him, or ransacked her room?
Somebody else knew about Black Jack’s treasure.
They must have got wind of his death and assumed he would have given the information to his nearest and dearest—his granddaughter.
They wanted Mr Cleaver out of the way so they could get to her. The idea someone was watching, following her, made anxiety skitter down her back.
She dared not trust Mr Cleaver with the treasure or with any hint that they were looking for something of such value, but perhaps she could give him something.
Why? demanded a little voice in her head that sounded remarkably like Black Jack.
Because I’m not ready to say goodbye. It was the honest answer, if not a sensible one.
But Angel had never been sensible, or well-behaved or good. She had pirate blood in her veins, and she longed for adventure, and the man riding beside her was an adventure all on his own. What harm could it do to allow him to help her find Jenny?
Angel glanced up. Mr Cleaver was watching her intently. His gaze dropped to her mouth and an odd, ticklish sensation fluttered low in her belly, making her restless.
“I made my grandfather a promise before he died,” she said, aware of Milly watching her, eyes wide with surprise.
“When he was a younger man, before he married my grandmother, he fell in love with a woman. She was wild and reckless, and she was hanged for highway robbery. He asked me to find her and put roses on her grave.”
Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that, judging by his expression.
She wondered if he was reassessing her after that revelation, wondering what kind of man would tarry with such a woman—wondering if Miss Baxter was as respectable as she appeared.
Perhaps he no longer thought of her as a lady.
If you took advantage of a lady, you must marry her, but any other female was fair game.
It was unkind and unjust, but what in life wasn’t? It was simply how most men thought.
“Well,” he said, after a brief silence while he digested the information. “That was not what I’d been expecting. A romantic fellow, your grandfather.”
Angel said nothing, she’d already said a good deal more than she ought to have.
“Why begin in Eynsford?” he pressed.
Angel fidgeted, readjusting her hands on the reins as she decided how much to tell him. “Because this is where she was born. My Pops told me to start here.”
She did not meet his eyes, too afraid she would see the way he looked at her had changed.
“Very well. So, what do you know about her? Do you have an address? Somewhere to start?”
Angel shook her head. “Only her name. Jenny Preston. She was hanged in 1781.”
Despite knowing she ought not, Angel glanced up at him.
Mr Cleaver was watching her thoughtfully. “How did they meet?” he asked, his voice low.
Angel shivered. How she loved his deep voice.
It seemed touch her as gently, as caressingly, as his hands had done last night.
“She held him up,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her face.
It was so easy to picture, for her at least. It would have delighted Black Jack to no end to come face–to-face with such a woman.
Mr Cleaver gave a bark of laughter. “Are you quite sure he didn’t marry her? I could believe such a woman was your grandmama, Miss Baxter.”
If any other man had said it, she would have slapped his face and given him a dressing down, for the implication she was the granddaughter of a woman hanged for highway robbery would have been an insult.
But Mr Cleaver said it with such an admiring glint in his eyes, his tone so friendly and approving that she could not find the slightest hint of disapproval or condemnation.
So, Angel smiled back at him, a rueful smile as she wondered what he would think if he ever discovered she was the granddaughter of one of the most notorious pirates who ever lived. She suspected he would not be the least bit surprised.
Mr Cleaver rode on for a moment, contemplating what she’d told him.
“Well, then. I suggest we have a bite to eat when we get to Eynsford. There’s bound to be folk who remember a woman who died in such circumstances.
I’ll see what I can find out for you, and if that doesn’t bear fruit, we’ll try the parish church.
How does that sound, Miss Baxter? Do you approve, or do you have a better suggestion?
” Before Angel could open her mouth to reply, he held up his hand to forestall any complaints.
“And before you eat me for being a presumptuous devil, you must realise that asking questions about such a woman in a public bar will raise far fewer eyebrows if I do it.”
“I do realise it,” Angel said, a little tartly. “I’m not a fool, Mr Cleaver. It is a sound plan and exactly what I would have suggested myself. Still, I thank you for asking me my opinion instead of telling me what we shall do. It was a good effort.”
He grinned at her, such a boyish, good-natured grin that she could not help but laugh in response and shake her head. They rode on, the heavily charged atmosphere easier now as Mr Cleaver’s rich baritone rose, singing the words of a naughty old folk song, The Trooper and the Maid.
Though Angel had never heard it before, it appeared Toby had, his higher pitched voice joining in with Mr Cleaver’s. Angel wondered if the lad had the least notion of what he was singing.
“Good gracious,” Milly exclaimed, hiding her face behind one hand, cheeks pink as she realised what the song was about.
Angel giggled, delighting in the story about a boisterous soldier and the maid who warmed his bed on the night before battle, until the drums announced it was time to leave.
Though it was quite beyond the bounds of propriety, all of them sang along, their voices rising together as Mr Cleaver led them.
“It’s up up up our colonel cried, it’s up up up and away, then. It’s up up up our colonel cried, the morn’ our battle day then.”
Hart led his little band as the land narrowed, the chalky downs rising on either side of them.
The road followed the River Darent. The Darent was a wide, shallow chalk stream, which made the water as clear as crystal, sparkling even on an indifferently grey day.
Graceful willows trailed their delicate green fingers into the merrily tumbling stream, the water burbling as brown trout leapt, making Hart wish he had a fishing rod at hand.
But he was not here to pass the time, and he suspected the two brutes who had tried to finish him last night would not give up so easily.
They wanted something, and they’d not got it, whatever it was.
He’d been looking over his shoulder since morning, with no sign of anything amiss, but he could not shake the feeling they were being followed.
Eynsford appeared before them with the appearance of a welcoming inn whose painted sign proclaimed, ‘The Plough’ and beckoned them to stop and rest. The bridge and a ford, which gave the ancient village its name, lay ahead.
Though the day was not warm, children played at the edges of the water, skirts tucked up and trousers rolled as they fished for minnows.
The ragstone bridge comprised two stone arches, with a weathered carved figure on one side. The ancient church, with its narrow, pointed spire, reached heavenward, and the village huddled comfortably around it.