Page 36 of Ten Rules for Loving the Wrong Rake

A mile out from the village he reined the mare to a stop beneath an oak at the edge of the road. He dismounted and lifted her down, his hands on her waist, her hands on his shoulders, her body sliding against his. For a moment they stood like that, face to face, his hands still on her, her weight settling onto her good leg.

"Straight in," he said. "The general store is past the church on the left. Pay in coin. Don't give your name."

"I know."

"If you see the warrior or the Irishman—"

"I walk the other way. You have told me."

"I'm telling you again because you have a habit of doing the opposite of what I say."

"And you have a habit of assuming I cannot manage."

He let go of her waist. Unhooked her cane from the saddle and handed it to her.

She took it. Their fingers touched on the handle. She did not react.

She pulled the cane free and turned and walked towards the village without looking back. Her gait was uneven on the rutted road, but her back was straight and her chin was up and she did not falter.

He stood beside the mare and watched her go and thought he would kill as many men as he needed to keep her walking away from him like that, furious and upright and free.

Then he leaned against the tree and waited.

* * *

She came up the road an hour later with a boy beside her, fourteen or fifteen, red-eared, carrying two canvas sacks and a crate balanced against his chest. She walked at her own pace and the boy matched it without complaint, chatting at her in the easy, rambling way of someone who had decided she was worth impressing.

Kit pulled his hat low, the brim throwing his face into shadow. He stayed by the tree, one shoulder against the trunk, the reins loose in his hand. Just a man waiting. Nothing more.

The boy saw him first. Slowed. Looked at Kit with open suspicion. Kit kept his head down and said nothing. Took the crate from the boy and hefted it onto the back of the mare, balancing against the saddle.

"That is my groom," Audrey said. "My aunt's groom left upon her passing."

"Yes, ma'am. Will you be wanting anything else, ma'am?"

"That will be all. Thank you."

She pressed a coin into his palm. The boy pocketed it, tipped his cap, and headed back down the road. He looked over his shoulder once. Kit held his gaze until the boy turned away and walked faster.

"My groom," Kit said.

"Would you prefer I had introduced you as my fugitive?"

He almost smiled. He did not.

He lifted her into the saddle. She did not lean back on the ride home.

They unloaded in silence. She set the provisions on the kitchen table, item by item, and tried to feel like a woman preparing for a siege and not like a woman keeping house with a murderer. Salt pork. Two loaves. Oats. Beans. A block of soap. Candles. The brandy Kit had requested, which she assumed was to numb the pain before someone slit their throats.

Behind her, the creak of leather and the dull click of a buckle. She turned. He had taken off his jacket and was unbuckling a harness she had never seen — two straps crossing his chest, worn smooth, fitted close to his body. On one side hung a knife longer than the one in his boot, the blade dark, the handle wrapped in cord rubbed pale from grip. On the other, a pistol in a leather cradle, the barrel short, the stock scratched. He set them on the table. A second pistol came from behind his back. He checked the pan on each, blew the dust from one, and laid them beside the knife. The whole thing took him ten seconds. His hands did not hesitate. His face did not change.

Had this been strapped to his chest when his thumb found her pulse? When his hand closed around her wrist and steadied the mug?

He was sent to kill you. He considered it. You can’t trust him.

She picked up her cane and busied herself with the candles.

Chapter thirteen