“—he might be the first duke I’ve ever liked.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thirty minutes later, they entered the Hungry Hen to discover a tavern full of people and another lady barkeep. Mary Bright wasn’t quite as openly friendly as Gwen, but she poured a long pint, made a lovely bed, and happily held messages for Adelaide and others as they made their way north to the border. Messages like the one she set on the bar when Adelaide and Clayborn arrived.

  Mary was a new addition to the Hell’s Belles network, having only recently inherited the management of the Hungry Hen from her aunt, a longtime contact of Duchess. But she was quick to leap into action when Adelaide introduced herself, heading off to fetch the key to the Belles’ reserved room.

  The drive had been silent, Adelaide playing over the events of the afternoon, the pleasure of their race, the terror of watching Clayborn’s carriage disintegrate in the road.

  Not because he might have died, of course. He could do whatever he wished. She wasn’t warming to this handsome man who was less and less the straitlaced aristocrat she’d thought him to be, negotiating with highwaywomen and sleeping in chairs by the door to feed a wild instinct to keep her safe.

  His hand in hers, his fingers laced through her own.

  Had that ever happened to her before? Had she ever felt so protected?

  Of course not, and it was fine. She was perfectly capable of protecting herself. It was he who required protection, anyway. Why, if she hadn’t been there, he would have been robbed by Lucia and her men, or worse, at the hands of Danny Stoke, Alfie Trumbull’s trusted lieutenant, who’d been looking for her the night she’d stolen from The Bully Boys’ warehouse, still looking for her, here.

  Which meant The Bully Boys were involved, and she had to stay out of sight.

  She was slightly surprised that Alfie sent Danny outside of London to find her. Adelaide didn’t make a habit of leaving the city, and when she was there, she wasn’t impossible to find. But being hunted here, two days north of the city, meant one of two things: either she’d stolen something extremely valuable, or Alfie Trumbull was angry.

  With the way Danny had looked at that coach—the way his gaze had traveled over the Duke of Clayborn’s crest, like a hungry fox at a henhouse—she had a feeling it was both. And while most of The Bully Boys were hired guns with little between their ears, Danny was different. Danny was her father’s right hand for a reason. He knew what he was doing, and he was far closer than she liked.

  She pushed the thought away, sliding her finger beneath the wax seal and reading the brief message within, amazed, as always. Mere mortals required rest but Duchess employed a vast network of messengers who appeared to need no such thing. When combined with Mithra Singh’s vast network of taverns and posting inns, there was nowhere on the island of Britain that the Belles could not access within forty-eight hours.

  Adelaide closed the message. Helene and Jack were safe. For now.

  “My brother, I assume?”

  “An hour north,” she said. “Even with your detour to a roadside ditch, we’re not far behind.”

  “They had a six-hour start on us,” he said. “Why are they moving so slowly?”

  “Couples headed to Gretna have a tendency to linger if they believe there is time to do so.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t they want to get it done?”

  She met his gaze, heat flaring in her cheeks. “They want to get . . . other things done, as well.”

  His eyes went wide with understanding. “Ah.”

  She adjusted her spectacles. “We should change horses and go, once we’ve had food and a rest.”

  Clayborn’s lips flattened into a thin line. “You still intend to break the match? Leave the girl unmarried and ruined?”

  “I intend to return Lady Helene to London.” Adelaide did her best to avoid the question.

  “To her unpleasant parents’ home? When she might return to that of her loving husband?”

  If all went well with the Belles’ plan, Helene and Lord Carrington would live out their days in romantic bliss, with her father deep in the bowels of Newgate Prison. But if Helene was lost, so, too was the plan. “To London.”

  He let out a sigh. “At some point, you are going to have to tell me what you are up to.” It was impossible. She couldn’t tell him anything without revealing everything. Havistock’s murder. The threat to Helene and Jack. The Belles’ plan.

  When she did not reply, he made a sound deep in his chest—pure frustration. A growl that ceded absolutely no ground.

  She looked to him, his face light in the glowing candlelight of the tavern, and winced. “You’re . . .” She hesitated, reaching for him, stopping just before she touched him. There was a scratch high on his right cheek. A scrape along his left jaw. His hair was in disarray.

  “A mess?” he offered.

  She nodded and said, softly, “You lost your hat, as well.”

  He ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze tracking over her own, which she’d hastily repinned when they’d left the scene of his accident. Something flashed in his eyes—something half dangerous and half exciting—and Adelaide forced herself to look away. Clearing her throat, she considered the room, cataloguing each occupant, searching for Danny.

  Danny, who she knew, without question, was searching for her, wherever he was.

  “He’s not here,” Clayborn said, the words low and harsh, his blue gaze serious and urgent. “You think I would not have looked? You think I would have let us linger if he were here? You needn’t look so surprised, Adelaide. I would never let him near you.” He paused, then added, soft and firm, “Has no one ever kept you safe before?”

  She was saved from having to answer when Mary returned with the key to the Belles’ room.

  Clayborn leaned over the bar in an entirely unducal manner. Was he charming the other woman? The barmaid tittered from her side of the scarred mahogany before making a pretty show of looking at the reservation book.

  Resisting the urge to scowl at the pretty tableau the pair made, Adelaide leaned in as Mary said, “I’m afraid we’ve no free room for the evening, sir.”

  “Nothing at all, you say?” He leaned further over, his gaze tracking the notes in the book. “Hmm.” And then, before she could suggest he find a bale of hay in the stables, he turned to Adelaide and shot her a smile warm enough to raise the temperature in the room.

  Warm enough that when he reached a welcoming hand toward her, she forgot that she shouldn’t catch it. Shouldn’t let him tug her closer.

  Definitely shouldn’t let him say, “That’s alright. I shall simply have to share with my wife.”

  Adelaide’s eyes shot wide at the words. “Your what?”

  “Only one room,” he said, the words liquid and doting. “Again, would you believe it?” She ignored the thrill that tumbled through her as he grinned and lifted her hand—the hand that had betrayed her!—to his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

  She absolutely did not like that.

  But she did not pull away when he did it a second time, for some reason, and turned that smile back to Mary. “Newlyweds. We’re still getting comfortable with the descriptors. Would you send food and a bath to our room?”

  “Our room?” Who did this man think he was? Last night had been a special case.

  “Quite,” he said, patting down his pockets, fire and irritation flaring in his gaze. “And lucky, I’ll say, as it seems my purse is gone once more.”

  “Lucia,” she said with a wicked smile. He deserved that.

  He raised a brow. “Your kindred spirit.”

  “Light fingers make heavy pockets,” she replied, simply. “It’s honest work.”

  “Is it?” He paused. “Her men, Tobias and Rufus—are they—”

  “Her men,” Adelaide said, simply. Clayborn’s brows rose in surprise. “Though if you ask me, that is more men than a body requires.”

  “Seems Lucia feels differently,” he said dryly.

  Adelaide had never heard Lucia complain, that much was true.

  “Mary!” Adelaide was saved from the conversation by a too-big, too-loud brute shouting from across the room for the tavern mistress, who started in a way Adelaide knew too well, her spine going straight and her chin dipping to hide the loss of her smile. “Bring me anowwer drink!”

  The man didn’t need another drink. Adelaide was certain of that, even as storm clouds crossed the other woman’s face and she made to do as she was bid. Adelaide had seen this particular play before; going up against the lout did not end prettily for Mary, nor for any traveler who wasn’t rich and powerful and male.

  She reached for Mary’s arm, staying her movement and meeting her eyes. A lifetime of conversation passed between them before the other woman pulled away and crossed to the drunk.

  “Who’re they?” the man asked, loud enough for the query to carry across the room, but it was impossible to hear Mary’s quiet response. “Stop talkin’ to the toff. You ain’t expensive enough for him.”

  His laugh was overloud—the kind men laughed when they wanted attention, and not amusement. Adelaide stiffened, her fingers itching to find a blade. To give the man a warning.

  “If you’re to take him on, you’ll need a second,” Clayborn whispered at her elbow, his words sharp as steel.

  She didn’t move her attention from the man at the end of the bar. She couldn’t make out his tone, but she didn’t have to. The way Mary’s shoulders drooped a touch, as though she could somehow make herself small—invisible—was enough. Anger flared. “Are you offering?”

  “Depends. Are we trying to avoid notice?”

  Her heart rate increased. “I’m rarely noticed.”

  He made a little disbelieving sound.

  She looked to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Someday, Adelaide Frampton, you are going to realize that you are absolutely impossible to miss.”

  Before she could respond to that, the man across the bar chucked Mary beneath her chin—an action that could have been playful if it didn’t feel like such a threat. Clayborn stiffened, a fist forming on the bar.

  Adelaide set a hand to his sleeve, feeling the tight muscled cord of his arm. “Not now.”

  “Why not?” He looked to her, and she liked the fire in his eyes, as though the idea of doing nothing was anathema to him.

  “Because there are other ways to deal with men like this,” she said. “Ways that are quiet. And effective.” Ways that would send this man into the night and see him never darken the door of the Hungry Hen again. Because they couldn’t afford the kind of notice they were about to receive, with half the place already looking and the other half turning to do so.

  “Oy!” The shout came from across the bar. The enormous man was scowling at them—at Clayborn, who came to his full height then, because how could he not?

  “I also know ways that are effective, Miss Frampton.”

  Before she could reply, the drunk continued. “Wot are you lookin’ at, toff?”

  “Dammit, Clayborn,” Adelaide muttered beneath her breath. They had to get upstairs. Quickly. “Say nothing.”

  For a moment, she wasn’t certain he’d heard her. And then, raising his voice, he said precisely that, in the most superior tone Adelaide had ever heard.

  “Nothing.”

  The brute across the room didn’t mistake the insult, coming to his feet, fists balled like boulders.

  “Dammit, Clayborn!”

  “Outside!” Mary shouted, pointing at the drunk. “I’m tired of your shite, Billy.”

  “Outside then,” came the reply as Billy started pushing people out of the way to reach Clayborn.

  Adelaide did her own pushing then, trying to get Clayborn to the door. If they hurried, they might get to the carriage before the horses were unhitched.

  But Clayborn had turned to stone. Immovable.

  Adelaide looked to him, riveted by the man who advanced. “You can’t fight him.”

  “I wish you would stop that,” he said, in a voice filled with calm.

  “Stop what?” Dammit. She was going to need her blade. She reached into her pocket, searching for the opening within, for the blade strapped to her thigh.

  “Stop insisting that I’m no good in a bout.”

  The enormous man drew closer, and Clayborn wasn’t even watching. Adelaide protested, “Six years of fighting at school isn’t—”

  “Stand back,” he interrupted.

  She blinked at the cool instruction. “You can’t think to—”

  “Over there, by the stairs.”

  “Deliver me from men and their insistence on fighting without sense.” She shook her head, her gaze tracking his opponent. “No. We have to go.”

  “For once, you’ll listen to me, you absolute harridan. By the stairs. Now.”

  The command was sharp and unyielding, and somehow, though she’d never understand why, Adelaide followed it, backing away.

  Just as he knew she would, as he did not wait for her to follow his command, instead turning to face the foe already reaching for him.

  The brute never had a chance.

  Clayborn’s fist flew with uncanny speed, straight into the larger man’s face, dropping him like a sack of flour, directly to the floor.

  “That will do!” Mary shouted, sounding half delighted and half relieved.

  “Oh, my!” Adelaide whispered, feeling wholly something else altogether.

  Clayborn looked to Mary, eyes wide behind the counter as Billy’s compatriots came to fetch their fallen man and take him from the tavern. “It is none of my business, but this man should not be allowed to frequent your place, miss.” Mary blinked, but before she could reply, he turned to Adelaide. “Now. What are your ways?”

  When she did not immediately answer, Clayborn added loud enough for the whole room to hear, “My wife and I are not to be disturbed.”

  And then he was heading directly for Adelaide, his countenance stern and unyielding. Her heart began to pound as he closed the distance between them, and she fairly vibrated as she held her ground, refusing to back away from his advance.

  Not wanting to.

  When he reached her, he leaned in, close enough to touch her. To do more.

  To kiss her.

  She lifted a chin. “Only six years?”

  One dark brow rose. “At school.”

  Where’d he learn the rest?

  “Impressive,” she said, meaning it. Wanting to say more.

  “Upstairs. Now.”

  “Why did you call me that?” She didn’t move, even as every muscle in her body screamed to follow the order. “Your wife?”

  “What would you have preferred? Foe? Adversary? Nemesis?”

  “All more accurate,” she said.

  He sighed. “Perhaps I was looking for the quickest way to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection,” she said instantly. She’d been protecting herself for years. Others, too.

  He didn’t disagree, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “A path of least resistance, then.”

  “Resistance to what?”

  “Resistance to me. I’ve no interest in battling you right now.”

  And that’s when she realized there was something wrong. Her focus narrowed on him, the way he stood, straight and proud . . . and leaning just barely to the left. Not enough for anyone to notice, truthfully, but Adelaide wasn’t just anyone . . . and neither was this man. She should have noticed earlier, when he tossed his bag into the rear of her carriage and climbed onto the block, his movements stiffer than they’d ever been.

  She should have noticed when his jaw clenched tight in the final minutes of their journey. Or when he hefted his bag and walked into the Hungry Hen, his shoulders hunched a touch more than they should be.

  Not that any of it had stopped him from putting a man into the ground.

  Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  He looked to her. “Nothing of consequence. A leap from a moving carriage and some bruised knuckles can make a body wish for a warm bath and an amicable companion is all.”

  Her gaze flickered to the scrape high on his cheek. He turned away instinctively, not wanting her to see it. Not wanting to show her even a hint of weakness.

  “I’m perfectly amicable.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly how I would describe you,” he said, humor in his tone, letting her take his hand. Letting her lift his fist and run a thumb gently over his knuckles, raw from laying the brute out.

  When he sucked in a breath at the touch—pain?—something else?—she spoke, her words barely a whisper. “Up, then.”

  Up, to her room. To the bath. To food. To rest.

  To the two of them, alone.

  She led the way.

  The room was at the rear of the inn, overlooking the stables and far from the noise of the tavern below. In the time it had taken Clayborn to bring chaos to the taproom, food and scalding bathwater had been delivered, and when the door was closed and locked, they were left alone with nothing but the steam rising from the water.

  He inspected the tidy room, small and unassuming, with the exception of a massive oil painting on one wall, nearly as tall as a person, depicting a collection of six women, each clad in diaphanous white accented with gold, and each holding a blade and shield. “Why am I not surprised you were assigned the room in which goddesses watch over you?”

  “Shield-maidens,” she corrected him.

  He turned questioning eyes on her.

  She made for her bag, itching to keep busy—not wanting to consider how the events below had changed the way she thought of the duke, who no longer seemed so ducal. “They decided which warriors lived and which died on the battlefield.” Moving quickly, she fetched a vial of oil and added several drops to the hot bath, stirring the water to release the rich scent of rosemary into the air.

  She did her best to keep her back to him even as he watched from his place by the door, pressed to the wall. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to think about what came next.

  “What is it?” The question was quiet, like the room, but still it scraped over her skin like a touch.