Page 6 of The Countess Caper

“Not fast enough,” Marigold panted, and Tessa realized she had spoken out loud.

Roarke glanced outside. The window was streaked with rain and splatters of mud. “We’re nearly there, I’m sure.”

Tessa did not believe him.

Marigold glared at her. “So help me, Tessa Kilkenny, if you tell me to hold it in, my baby and I will both bite you just as soon as she grows teeth.”

“She, is it?” Roarke asked.

Marigold bared her teeth. “I am sick to death of men.”

He nodded solemnly. “I completely understand.”

Marigold nodded back. “You may stay.” It was a regal acquiescence, despite the fact that it was his carriage in the first place, and when Tessa had first met her, she could not even hold eye contact with a man.

“Don’t get too smug,” Tessa said. “He doesn’t like anyone. He once said people are as flighty as birds, especially redheads.”

She knew this to be a fact as he had said to her. Near her. Possibly she had been eavesdropping at the time, which gave her less of a right to her moral outrage, but as he had said it after declining to dance with her, she had every intention of holding on to her indignation. As a redhead, it was her duty.

Never mind that she had cultivated the air of a flighty songbird on purpose.

“You can’t have meant it,” Marigold said.

Roarke settled back against the cushions as if they were on a leisurely jaunt. He was so large that his shoulder brushed hers, his thigh pressed against hers. She scowled and scooted into the corner. She’d have to hang half out the window if this continued. She should probably hold her ground. But something about him made her feel too hot and too aware and too cross. They whispered things about this man. Dark things.

They did not dissuade her, and that was worrisome in the extreme. She had never believed the rumors, the gasps of murder and terrified women.

It was a relief on many levels when the horses slowed, and the carriage rocked to a stop. Marigold’s fingers were leaving indentations in the cushions. “I’ll bring her in,” Roarke said.

Tessa nodded before jumping outside, not bothering to wait for the coachman to bring the step. She raced to the red door, pounding once with her fist.

It opened just as she was about to barge in. Noni raised her eyebrows and reached for an apron hanging on a nearby hook. “Some babies like a storm,” she said mildly. “Bring her in.”

Noni was a tall Black woman who had moved to England from Uganda, bringing with her a wealth of midwifery knowledge. Why she had chosen a sleepy village in Cornwall was a mystery to Tessa. And a boon. No one would take better care of her friend. And with so little fuss and judgment. The midwife two towns over was in love with a vicar who was full of fire and brimstone.

This was not the first time Tessa had shown up on Noni’s doorstep with a lady in need of help. Nor would it be the last, judging by the occupants of Magpie House. When she had bought the run-down house with the last of her money, she knew the rooms would fill quickly. Women did not have many options. There were always jealous mothers, fathers with tempers, lovers with no honor whatsoever. Viscounts and earls and marquesses.

There were always women with no place to go.

The Incident had shown her that.

It was something Tessa had always understood, especially after her mother died when she was five years old, and her father five years later. But The Incident solidified it. Well, everything preceding it.

She hadn’t tried to drown a man in a punch bowl for no reason, after all.

She jumped aside when Roarke ducked into the house, carrying Marigold as if she weighed no more than a cat. A wet, spitting cat promising vengeance on anyone who looked in her direction. Noni smiled. “Good afternoon, Marigold.”

“I hate this.”

“I can see that,” Noni said mildly. She was used to women in labor. She was entirely unruffled. Tessa loved that best about her.

Roarke took Marigold into the bedroom Noni pointed out for him. When he returned, Tessa was still standing by the door, water dripping off the brim of her hat. He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to go in with her?”

“No, thank you,” Tessa said politely. “Absolutely not.” He blinked. She wrinkled her nose. “I am not… sanguine about blood. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

“But…”

“Would you like to go in there and watch the process of childbirth?”