Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 3-2

She blushed as Tony continued to stare, and hid her green eyes by glancing down at the basket on her arm.

She was a widow. He wanted to be a rake.

Perfect.

He scooted his chair back. Before he could rise, she strode across the taproom and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’ll just pay our shot, and we can be off.” Alistair threw his napkin on the table.

“What? Why?”

Alistair followed Tony’s gaze, which was still locked on the kitchen doorway. “You just saw her for the first time, haven’t even spoken with her yet. You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I can. I think I’m in love.”

“You’re in lust.”

Tony shrugged. “Same thing.”

The innkeeper’s daughter came out, and Alistair settled their bill. After she left, he pulled out the dog-eared map from his coat pocket. “I want to head inland for a while. We can be in Wool by tonight, and in Shaftesbury the following night. I have a friend with a five-foot telescope there, built by Herschel himself. One of his earlier models.”

The widow came out of the kitchen just then, juggling the basket on her arm, plus a second basket. The ribbons of her bonnet had become tangled with the handles. Tony was across the room and at her side before Alistair had even finished his sentence. “Allow me to give you a hand.” Tony rested his hand on hers, where she gripped the basket handles.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “No, thank you, sir, it’s quite all right.”

Tony untangled the ribbons and smoothed the worn gray satin between his fingertips. “No trouble at all,” he murmured. While her hands were occupied with the baskets, he took the liberty of tying the ribbons into a neat bow beneath her chin. He also took the liberty of touching his bare fingers to the underside of her chin in the process, and brushed her bare neck just above her unbuttoned pelisse.

Her soft skin was chilled from the storm outside. The fichu tucked into her neckline had been tugged loose on one side by the wind, revealing a small strip of creamy flesh above her bosom. Tony wanted to brush his fingers there, too.

By the time he finished tying the bow, instead of a maidenly blush coloring her cheeks, there was a decided glint in her green eyes. Outrage? Defiance? Her pulse fluttered at her throat.

Alistair strolled to their side. “Please forgive my forward friend, madam. He seems to have left his manners behind in London.”

She forced a polite smile, baring a few teeth. White and straight. Lovely. “No harm done.”

Tony drew breath to protest Alistair’s insult. Alistair continued, with the smile and smooth-as-honey voice that made women want to toss their skirts for him. “Alistair, Viscount Moncreiffe, at your service, madam.” He gave an elegant bow. “May I assist you with your burden?”

Her smile was genuine now, drat Alistair. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Good day, gentlemen.” And with that, she hurried out of the taproom before Tony could utter another syllable.

“So, shall we head north?”

Tony stared out the window, watching the widow’s retreating form, her steps confident. The wind hugged her dress to her curves, which were just the right size, perfectly proportioned. He waved at his friend. “You go on ahead. I think I’ll stay here a while.”

Alistair slowly nodded. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the new career you mentioned, would it?”

He let his smile speak for itself.

Alistair stroked his chin. “I suppose she was pretty, in a rugged, rural sort of way.” He folded the map and tucked it back in his pocket. “You know, we don’t really have to go to Shaftesbury. We have an entire week before we’re supposed to meet up with Nick in Weymouth. We could stay right here.”

We? “No, no, you go on ahead. I’ll meet up with you in a week or so.”

“You want to stay here, by yourself, in this quaint little village where you don’t know a soul? Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“You mean, besides the lady’s bed?”

Alistair slapped his shoulder. “I’ll give you this, my friend. You have excellent taste. She seemed delightful. Too bad she wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

“That will change. Trust me.”

Alistair hefted his haversack over his shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? That telescope is five feet long.” He held his hands outstretched to demonstrate the size.

“Did y’see the pretty widow?”

Alistair set his haversack down. “You know, she really was pretty. Perhaps I should stay.”

Ignoring the tease in Alistair’s tone, Tony picked up the haversack and put it back on Alistair’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of you missing out on that five-foot telescope.” He gave Alistair a shove toward the door.

“All right, all right. I can take a hint.” Alistair stepped outside. The wind had calmed and the rain had stopped, at least for the moment.

“See you in a week. Or thereabouts.”

Alistair shook his head, laughing, as he strode across the inn yard. “Happy hunting!”

Tony grabbed his own haversack and went to book a room for the night at the Happy Jack, formulating his plan for wooing the widow.

First, though, he had to find her again.

* * *

Late that evening, Tony once more sat at the corner table in the taproom, eating mutton and cheese. Mrs. Spencer, the innkeeper’s wife, and her daughter had been less than forthcoming regarding the widow’s identity. Even though he’d followed the same direction she had taken when she’d left, questioning villagers regarding her identity had proven equally frustrating and fruitless. Between the war against Napoleon and a shipwreck last spring, the village had more than its share of widows. Finding the right one could prove problematic.

The pouring rain and blustery wind had made him give up his search for the evening. After a good night’s sleep, tomorrow he’d begin again. Until then, tonight was the perfect opportunity to gather more information for his brother about the inn.

“Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Spencer stood beside Tony’s table, her fists on her hips.

“Just curious how many employees it takes to operate a fine establishment such as this, one that is not on the post road and doesn’t appear to have much local custom, never mind travelers.” Tony smiled at her.

Mrs. Spencer harrumphed, filled his tankard, and left without answering his question.

Perhaps the inclement weather was keeping the locals at home. Even the blazing fire in the hearth could not dispel the gloom, with the tallow candles adding to the dreary atmosphere rather than dispelling it.

Tony almost dropped his fork when the door blew open and two men walked in. They wrestled the door shut against the wind, then turned and tripped over themselves when they spotted Tony in the corner.

“Good evening,” he called.

“Aye,” the younger of the two newcomers replied, straightening his threadbare coat. With stooped shoulders and weather-roughened cheeks, he looked sixty if a day.

His companion grunted as he removed his cap and ran gnarled fingers through his short hair, before jamming the cap back on over the silver spikes. They moved to one of the rickety benches before the fire and sat down.

Spencer came out of the kitchen, a stained towel over one shoulder, and scowled at Tony.

“Spencer, bring us a pint of your best,” the elder of the newcomers called.

“And keep ‘em coming. ‘Twill be a long night,” the other added. His companion elbowed him in the ribs and cast a look over his shoulder at the table in the corner.

Tony pretended not to see, as he was busy draining his tankard of ale. The food was indifferent, but the drink was exceptional.

“Keep yer shirts on,” Spencer grumbled, and left the room, wiping his hands on the towel.

The door blew open again with another gust of wind and rain, and more men ambled in, congregating near the fire. All seemed to be of an age with the two already present, and all gave Tony much more than a cursory glance. They conversed in hushed voices, the words lost before they reached Tony’s ears.

Tony raised his empty tankard as Mrs. Spencer made the rounds with a large pitcher. She obliged, not spilling a drop.

“Thought the rain would keep everyone at home tonight.” He pointed at the men by the hearth.

Mrs. Spencer whirled back toward him, pitcher held high. “What did you say?”

Tony set down his tankard. “Just that I thought the taproom was empty earlier because everyone was staying home, out of the rain.”

“Right. Home. Rain.” She bobbed her chin and hurried toward the kitchen, throwing him a glance over her shoulder before ducking through the doorway.

He’d heard people in rural counties were a bit eccentric. He was beginning to believe that the rumors, at least in this case, had merit.

The door opened again, and this time there were boys with the old men coming indoors, in their mid to late teens guessing by their posturing and strutting.

If Tony were prone to paranoia, he might think the looks thrown his way were suspicious. Perhaps the men had heard of Tony’s inquiries about the widow, divined his intentions, and were simply being protective of her.

Some of the men filed out, including the two who had entered first. The wind had calmed, and no rain blew in while the door was open. The half dozen remaining stayed by the fire, their backs to Tony. If he were in London, he’d think he was being given the cut direct.

With the break in the storm, Tony decided to take a walk down along the beach before turning in. He pulled his coat tighter about his shoulders and stepped outdoors. He could almost feel the clouds above, hanging low over the land. Precious little light spilled from the inn’s windows, leaving the courtyard almost solid black. Odd. There should at least be a lantern in the stables. He had definitely heard horses earlier.

He’d gone a few steps in what he thought was the correct direction when he heard a harsh “Now!”

What little light there’d been disappeared as a not-quite-empty flour sack was thrust over his head, choking and blinding him.

Hands grabbed at him. Tony swung, caught nothing. He coughed, tried to call out, but the sound was cut off by a fist punching him in the stomach. He bent over, gasping for air, struggling to tug the suffocating cloth from his face. More hands were on him, holding the flour sack in place, pinning his arms.

He’d spent countless hours at the London docks among the dregs of humanity with nothing worse happening to him than bruising his knuckles, only to be attacked and bested here, in a tiny, remote village on the picturesque coast. How humiliating.

But he wasn’t down yet.

He kicked. Connected. Someone grunted in pain, one hand loosened from his neck. Encouraged, Tony kicked backward, found another shin. Another grunt. He was able to pull his right arm free and tried again to rip off the blinding sack.

“Stubborn one, ain’t he?”

Tony had just enough time to register the fact that the speaker was next to his ear before they whacked him on the back of his head. Stars flared before his eyes. He staggered, multiple hands still holding him upright. He swung his fist toward the speaker. Another fist struck him, this time on his sore right shoulder, right over the still-healing tattoo. Pain exploded in his back, and gravity seemed to disappear.

“About time,” was the last thing he heard before his knees buckled and the darkness claimed him.