Chapter 13
Thirteen
Fletch
Deliberately shutting out memories of his uncivilized breakdown in front of Kate—and the humiliating Never! she’d replied to his advances—Fletch hid behind the long case clock.
He spent his morning diagramming its eccentric escapement. Once that was done, he gathered all the working parts in bits of felt. He needed a shop where he could set up the proper equipment for cleaning and sanding and repairing. A project like this required far more work than a cog in a toy.
Ebony-haired Miss Vivien, and the slower, plumper woman who must be her sister, stopped at the foot of the stairs, their arms laden with billowing silks. “Mr. Fletcher, how thoughtful of you to clear our path.” The young flirt flapped long, dark eyelashes at him.
Here was an attractive female who wouldn't reject his advances.
But he wasn't interested in a jade who would no doubt claim she was with child and demand he marry her.
One look at her scowling older sister revealed what the little minx would become in a few years.
He'd spent a lifetime avoiding entrapment.
Without replying, he continued his task. Kate would have kicked his boot in retaliation for his surliness.
Kate had come to his rescue last night. If he pushed past his humiliation—he realized she'd not only placed him above capturing the man endangering her but had grasped the madness battering at his brainbox and acted on it.
Fletch hadn't known how to accept her kindness, so he'd insulted her. He wasn't fit for civilization. Besides, he didn’t need a woman feeling sorry for him. Or understanding him.
Whiskey silenced the demons, but he didn’t want to fall back on drink and ruin his chance to work on this clock.
He clenched his jaw, found a crate, and stopped in the ballroom to ask if they had any batting or rags he might have. Those pendulums were ridiculously heavy. He wanted them well-padded to prevent them bouncing about.
Obviously fuming, Kate ignored his entrance. “Where are Miss Vivien and Mrs. Jameson?” Her tone was more firm than cross. “They were supposed to have these hems finished.”
“They took them gowns up to the ladies, ma'am. For a fitting, mayhap?” one of the older women replied uncertainly.
“Only Miss Marlowe is allowed to do that! Was she with them?”
The fact that she didn’t acknowledge Fletch’s existence said she had sails set for battle. The impassive lady hid volatility well, but that icy exterior was growing thin. Fletch enjoyed watching too much.
The seamstress she questioned glanced at him, apparently hoping for deliverance.
“Two women with armloads of gowns flounced up the front stairs like royal princesses,” he said helpfully, to see if the volcano would ignite—because he was a bastard that way.
Kate’s lips compressed on whatever censure burned her tongue. Restraining herself far better than he did, she raised an eyebrow at his crate rather than chase down the miscreants. “Did you require something, Mr. Fletcher?”
The beleaguered seamstress bobbed a curtsy, shot him a look of gratitude, and fled.
He explained his dilemma, and Kate transformed into an efficient paragon again. Clucking over the clock, she sought what he needed without ado.
Watching her gather his materials while answering workers’ questions and directing the flow of labor around the enormous ballroom, Fletch wondered if he could invite himself back to her farm again.
He’d most likely worn out his welcome, but he had a niggling instinct that this composed female wouldn’t harass him and make annoying demands he couldn’t handle.
And she needed someone to protect her from lunatics.
Probably another example of his damaged upper story.
He told himself Kate was as matronly as Miss Vivien’s dour sister, except on Kate, maturity and innate kindness bestowed comfortable femininity.
He’d seen the auburn glory she hid beneath that frilly cap.
She was so far above him that he had to close his eyes and remember his lapse into insanity last night.
“Major Fletcher?” The scent of her lavender soap wafted beneath his nose, too close for comfort.
He opened his eyes and focused his attention on the box of cloth she presented. “Excellent, thank you.”
“We don’t have much need for batting here, but I have some at home. Those pendulums have to be ancient.” Brusquely, she handed him the box, as if she were one of his automatons.
“I have an old blanket that might work. Thank you.” He fled, kicking himself all the way.
He truly wasn’t civilized. He’d left home for the army at eighteen and wasted nearly twenty years of his life killing men just like him. Rafe had rescued him from spiraling madness by requesting his transfer from field to depot squadron, where they oversaw supplies instead of killing people.
Fletch would give his life for Rafe. And Rafe would slay him if he insulted Kate.
So Fletch took himself and his pieces of metal down to the inn’s workshop where he wouldn’t find trouble. Entering the inn yard, he could hear Rob and Lynly laughing with Rafe’s young wards. School must be out for the day.
Judging by Damien’s old barouche waiting in the yard, Kate’s family had apparently retired their aging pony cart for good. The carriage was excessive for the few miles to the farm, but the hood kept little Lynly out of the elements. He didn’t see Damien anywhere. Were they trusting Rob to drive?
A demented bastard might easily attack a carriage on the road. The boy wasn’t large enough or experienced enough to handle two horses.
Knowing he was asking for trouble—he wasn’t totally mad if he knew what he was doing—Fletch set his box of parts on the carriage floorboard.
He still had the enormous pendulums to carry down. He found a couple of old blankets in the stable and threw them over his shoulder. He should have just enough time to pack up the final pieces before it was time for Kate to leave work.
Striding down from the manor, Rafe ran into Fletch on his way up the hill. “Are you going back with Kate tonight? We’ve scoured the grounds and can’t find any sign of the lunatic.”
“She’ll most likely stab me if I try,” Fletch admitted. “Put together a supper and I’ll attempt bribery. Is anyone patrolling her grounds?”
“I have a couple of men taking shifts during the day, but the captain’s troops are limited.
We have no one reliable in the evening.” Rafe removed his hat to run his hand through his carrot curls.
“I’ve talked to everyone twice and can’t find anyone who saw Morgan in the manor.
The footman was off on an errand Wednesday, when the maid fell.
The lunatic might have sneaked in the portico entrance then—searching for the captain, maybe?
But yesterday. . . The tower is open to all.
He might have slipped up there—but why? Did he know how to reach the sewing room?
I have lists upon lists of who was where and when, but no one saw a stranger. ”
“My concern is where Morgan is hiding. Unless he has somehow found a priest hole in the manor and is coming out to push women around, I’m inclined to believe Miss Vivien is an hysterical attention-seeker who stumbled and screamed.
” Fletch was in a hurry to grab the pendulums before Kate left.
He supposed the weights were safe enough on the landing, but he itched to examine them.
“If he’s in the manor, he has to come out to eat. ”
“I’ll talk to Lady Elsa, see if any food has gone missing.” Rafe looked as if he’d rather pull hair than speak to the manor’s lady cook.
“Have Verity do it.” Hearing women’s voices approaching, Fletch cursed inwardly and glanced up the hill. Lavender’s sewing ladies were already departing for the day.
Leaving Rafe to his problems, Fletch trotted up the hill. Maybe Kate would dally at the inn, talking with Verity, and he’d still make it back in time.
He dismissed the women hurrying toward home.
He heard their calls but he was searching for Kate.
Why wasn’t she with the rest? Didn’t the fool woman know a madman was after her?
He stomped on, cursing her cork-brained foolishness, wondering if he could pick up the pendulums while locking her in a room until he could walk down with her. . .
He growled when he finally saw her strolling alone, carrying her enormous sewing basket, lagging far behind the others. The evening air was cooler than it should be this time of year, and she was struggling with her cloak—with one hand. He rolled his eyes and broke into a lope.
He was within a few yards of her when a jingle of harness and an indignant bray caused him to glance up.
At the top of the manor’s drive, mules hitched to a cart carrying feed for the stable kicked their heels at an unseen tormentor. Before Fletch could find the perpetrator, the team broke into a gallop. With the reckless speed of angry animals, they raced straight downhill. . . toward Kate.
Fletch broke into a run, smashing into her, grabbing her with his one free arm, and tumbling onto the grassy verge in a muddle of blankets and basket. The mules and their disintegrating cart sailed past. As he hit the ground, a broken wheel flew over their heads.
Screams further down the hill indicated the rest of the women were still alive. A one-wheeled cart didn’t roll fast.
The screams forced Fletch to register the plushness of his landing. Hastily, he rolled off before she beheaded him. They lay side by side, staring at the cloudy twilight sky, letting the shock of their near demise roll over them.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said, because his head didn’t work right.
“I. . . You. . .” She half sobbed, half laughed. “Do you still have an arm?”
“Probably. I don’t intend to chase after it, if I don’t.” He thought he might be hysterical. She definitely was. So, what was he supposed to do now?
Laughing, sobbing, she sat up and leaned over to pat his bandaged appendage. “Meera did a good job wrapping you up.”
Now he ached all over. All over. Damn. Pain ought to overrule perfume. The beds of lavender he’d encountered on the Continent hadn’t been as heavenly as her scent.
“Could we play dead?” He didn’t want to sit up, but he could hear shouts from all directions.
Even his addled garret knew he ought to be doing something useful, but he couldn’t quite find his breathing apparatus.
Maybe his skull wasn’t completely cracked if it was preventing him from grabbing all those soft, welcoming curves and rolling over on her again.
“Excellent solution. If we’re already dead, we can’t be killed.” She lay back down beside him. “If I’m dead, will someone else put my basket together again?”
He laughed. It hurt. “If I’m dead, how will they put the clock together?”
They were both roaring helplessly by the time half the village raced up to put their pieces in place again.