Chapter 10
Ten
Fletch
Lying on the lumpy cushion he’d removed to the floor, with his stocking feet hanging off the edge, Fletch counted imaginary sheep. The Calhoun farm must once have had huge herds to have accumulated enough wealth to build this sturdy farmhouse.
The sheep were his only diversion from thoughts of the ripe female sleeping upstairs.
How could a once-married woman be as unaware of his lascivious thoughts as an innocent maid?
He'd thought her a dormant volcano coming to life, but the ice encasing her had to be glacier deep.
He'd practiced his very best behavior, and she hadn't cast him a single glance.
Obviously, he thought too highly of himself.
He'd looked for a clock to occupy his mind, but the only one he'd found had been properly cleaned and functional. He should have brought an automaton to work on.
He had little chance of finding sleep when he guarded a houseful of helpless innocents instead of armed soldiers. Giving him the responsibility of protecting women and children was completely crackbrained.
He'd already patrolled the four lower rooms twice.
The family apparently didn't use the formal dining room, judging by the bare cot and bedstand blocking the fancy dining table and sideboard. Recalling both Kate’s husband and mother had died of lingering illnesses, he assumed it must have been used as a sickroom.
The fourth room was a very neat study lined with books. He'd resisted examining the ledgers. His hands worked better than his head, and he was lousy with pounds and shillings. He’d been relieved when Rafe’s schoolteacher wife had taken over the inn’s accounts.
Hearing a lone horse clip-clopping down the lane, Fletch reared up. A lone horse at this hour, on this lane that went nowhere, was not normal—unless Brydie had thrown out Damien and he was going back to the Hall at midnight.
Fletch threw aside the feminine quilt little Lynly had carried down. She said she'd made it, and he'd done his best to admire the satin stars and flowers properly. She'd seemed pleased.
He'd never had siblings, never had use for children. They seemed to be one more responsibility he couldn't manage. At least, Kate’s pair were old enough to be almost interesting, in a distant sort of way.
Using his one good hand, he pulled on his short boots. Tall ones were currently out of the question.
The horse trotted closer—up the drive? Not exactly the hour for a social call.
The fury that had kept him alive through years of war rose as he primed the Morgans’ ancient shotgun.
It was doubtful he could kill so much as a rat with it, especially balancing it awkwardly with his arm in a sling, but he only had his knives on him. He’d adapt.
Kate had insisted on leaving the lunatic’s satchel outside, in the arched entryway. She was being thoughtful. Fletch thought of it as bait and waited for the human rat to nibble.
Kneeling behind the drapery, he eased the barrel through the space he'd left between the shutters and the open window frame. His line of sight was limited to anyone approaching the entrance from the drive.
There the bastard was. He must have tied his horse to a hitching post because he was on foot now. The intruder didn’t limp but seemed to favor his side, holding an arm against his chest. Good. Morgan ought to suffer too.
Fletch’s rage rose another notch. Detesting his current state of helplessness, knowing he’d wake the household, he didn't wait to see if the lunatic grabbed the valise. A good hunter eliminated vermin. Unfortunately, this rat was human, and he retained enough sense to not go for the kill. Adjusting his position to follow Morgan’s approach, he balanced the barrel on the sill.
When Hugh reached for the bag, Fletch aimed at his boots and relished the pull of the trigger.
The blast rattled his teeth and jarred loose the mindless surge of war fever. Above, Kate screamed. Caught up in the black rage of battle, Fletch didn’t register anything but the enemy. He reached for an ancient loaded pistol and shoved the window higher, intent on capture.
Insanely, the lunatic grabbed the satchel, then hobbled off on his smoking boot. Damn. Hard to stop heavy boots with buckshot.
The enemy was escaping! Before he could step over the sill and aim higher, Kate ran down the stairs and flung herself at his back.
His brainbox completely disconnected.
While he stood there, frozen, she pushed away to pat his bound arm and chest. “Are you hurt? Did he shoot you? I can't bear this.”
Him? She worried over his worthless hide?
She yanked open the draperies to look out. Fletch came unstuck enough to haul her back. “Stay away from the window!”
The need to hunt the enemy resumed, full force. He couldn’t let the bastard escape to try another day. Unable to move the sofa from the door swiftly enough, he climbed out the window in time to see his victim hobble to his horse.
Fletch aimed the old pistol and shot again. The horse bolted with the Frenchie clinging to the saddle.
“Reload!” he shouted to his troops, reaching for the long rifle—no rifle.
He pulled his sword—no sword. Damned officers keeping the best for themselves. He ran after the coward, wielding a dagger, refusing to let them escape this time. Had to stop the spy, take down the horse—
A slight body hit him from behind. He tried to shake them off, grabbing for. . . skirts?
“Stop! He's gone. You can't do more. Please, come back inside. He's not worth harming yourself. Rafe will find him.” Small hands tugged at his good arm.
Rafe, the ginger giant who kept them fed. Couldn't let anything happen to Rafe. Needed to reload. Bloody cavalry, where were they?
“Mr. Fletcher, come inside. Let me fix you tea. It's chilly out here. Thank you for stopping Hugh again. I’ll stir the fire so you can warm up.”
The black rage foamed without direction. He needed his weapons. What was the enemy position? Why was this female here? Was she friend or foe?
He followed her, hoping she’d lead him to weapons or his troops.
The warmth of a banked fire and the scent of pickled onions seeped past the foaming fury. Where the devil was he? If he didn’t have to shoot anyone, he needed a drink. Resisting insistent hands, he knocked over a chair looking for his flask. Chair?
“Look on top of that cabinet, please,” an enticing siren murmured. “I can't reach it.”
She sounded a little desperate. Perhaps she needed a good drink too. He picked up the chair and set it down in front of a tall cabinet. Cabinet. Battlefields had no cabinets.
He was in a kitchen, making a fool of himself. Now he really needed that drink.
Climbing up, he groped around. Instead of a flask, he found a round, solid object with a chain attached. Maybe she chained her liquor. But his palm cradled warm metal as he climbed down.
She set a lantern on the table. “Sit here. I'll fix something to heat your insides.”
That sounded promising, even though a woman who understood his needs existed only in his sick mind.
No matter. He could see what he held now.
. . a gold pocket watch, not old or new, just nicely made.
The ornate cover had the owner's well-worn initials engraved in the design.
He could tell from the wear that it had been much loved.
He held a piece of someone's life here—the ticking of their days and years.
He popped it open. Good watch, sturdy crystal, not too scratched. He studied the face. Roman numerals, must have belonged to an educated gent. A second hand! That was brave of the maker. The hands had stopped, so he wound it. Nothing. Dead.
The siren set a steaming mug before him. He took a swig and spluttered it all over the table. “What the hell?”
“Hot milky tea.” She swiped at the mess. “You'll sleep better for it.”
Sleep? He didn't remember the last time he’d slept. Possibly for a few hours with Willa. A good tumble in bed. . . Fletch eyed the siren’s nicely rounded bosom in a thin flannel gown while she wiped the table. He could reach out—
As if reading his mind, she returned to rinse her cloth in the sink. “The watch was my father's. It stopped working a few years ago. Brydie set it on the cabinet to keep the children from playing with it.”
His gaze returned to the dust-covered gold.
It needed a good polish. With the aid of his pocket knife, he pried open the back easily enough.
Looked like the pin had worked its way out.
“Overwound.” He sipped the contents of the mug without noticing what he drank while he studied the cogs.
The foaming rage crept back into hidden recesses.
“My fault, most likely. I suppose I thought I could make time go faster if I wound it.”
“Nervous habit. We all have them. I need my tools. It can be fixed.”
“I can't pay you,” she said honestly. “I just hoped to help you sleep. Rafe said clocks calm you.”
Fletch took another sip, grimaced, and finally relinquished the last of the rage.
He was in a perfectly normal kitchen—perhaps a trifle more grandiose than the one he remembered from youth.
The woman returning to the seat across from him wore gray flannel that had been washed a few times too many.
She wore her waist-length dark auburn hair in a glorious plait.
“Women calm me,” he said crudely. “I don't suppose—”
She rose and slammed her chair against the kitchen table. “Most decidedly not. Ever. Never.”
She swept out, leaving Fletch morosely studying the beautifully designed timepiece in his palm.
Best stick to mechanical relationships or he'd end up like the poor deluded lunatic claiming what wasn't his to take.