Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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passed him another towel, saying, ‘For your hair’, before pushing him down into the room’s one chair and opening his travelling trunk. She pulled out clean clothes for him. ‘Your clothes will be dry in the morning, but you’ll need something for tonight.’ She laid them out on the bed.
‘Take care of yourself, Bea. I’ll do.’ Preston smiled at her efforts. Of course Beatrice would fuss over him. She took care of those in need whether it be a poor woman in a butcher shop or a hungry baby, or a soaking wet man. He didn’t mind. When was the last time someone had done for him? When he was at home, his valet did it, but when he travelled for the Crown, he was on his own. His work often required stealth and one could not be stealthy with a valet in tow.
Beatrice was a caregiver, it came naturally to her, part of how she took charge. Look what she’d done for her friends this past year, inspiring them to take life into their own hands; his sister had told him about the Left Behind Girls Club where the motto was ‘nothing will change until you do’. He’d seen evidence of it these last days, all the attention she selflessly lavished on her son. He supposed he’d always known that about Beatrice. She’d been the leader of the little group of girls since they were young. But to see it in action was another thing altogether, a reminder, too, that he might have grown up with Bea, but their adult lives had been spent separately. He might have known the girl she’d been, but he did not know entirely the woman she’d become. He’d like to know her, though. It was, in large part, what these past days in the coach had focused on. The journey was no longer merely a rescue or retrieval of an old friend, but a discovery. He had the sense she was doing the same with him, both of them exploring the same questions: who had they become in the absence of childhood and the presence of their own adversities?
Perhaps the more important question was: where did that discovery lead? They’d long since superseded the friendship of childhood in Little Westbury and they were fast becoming more than the sum of their friendship in London as new adults come to town. He knew it was due to the enforced proximity of the road. Once the road was gone and they were home, this sense of closeness would fade. It was how the road worked.
He watched her deftly change the baby into a fresh cloth, her face all smiles, her voice a gentle coo even when Matthew fussed and rolled, trying to thwart her efforts. Something inside him went soft. Would the closeness fade? He found himself trying on the old line of comfort: ‘maybe this time it would be different’. Maybe he didn’t want the closeness to fade.
Bea took a moment to play a game with Matthew, blowing on his belly before settling his clothes. The baby laughed, forgetting his own troubles, whatever they might be. Preston laughed, too, feeling some of the weariness of the day slip away when Bea looked over at him and smiled. It was not a special moment, the way milestone moments are, but he knew in his gut he would remember this moment for ever. His mind would keep a sharp picture of her at the bed, looking over at him with the laughing baby in her arms, as if this was his wife and his child. His family in truth. Then Matthew started to cry again and the moment was gone. Bea bounced him, trying to settle him down, undaunted.
Her patience was admirable, really. Preston knew she had to be as tired as he was after a long day in the coach and he wasn’t the one who had to feed the wee little fiend. Matthew hadn’t wanted to do anything today except scream and eat. He wasn’t looking forward to taking the baby down to the taproom, but what choice did he have? ‘Let me hold him while you get ready,’ he offered.
She gave him a tired smile of thanks. Eating in public didn’t appeal to her any more than it appealed to him, but perhaps for different reasons. ‘Thank you. I will just be a minute.’
Preston kept a hand firmly and obviously at Beatrice’s back as they navigated the taproom, letting everyone see that she was clearly with him, clearly under his protection. There was a knife in his boot if he needed it. He hoped he wouldn’t. But not that hopeful. The room was just as bad as he’d anticipated, noisy with the excitement of tomorrow’s horse sales and full of the odours that come with a room filled to capacity with wet, muddy men unaccustomed to washing.
The innkeeper caught sight of the baby in Bea’s arms and ushered them to a quieter table in the corner, a small blessing. At least if there was a fight, he’d have a wall at his back, a far more preferable arrangement to being surrounded on all sides.
‘We’ll take wine if you have it,’ Preston told the man, helping Beatrice to sit before taking his own seat that looked out across the crowded room. Most men were just in high spirits, but two tables worried him. The one near the door looked to be trouble in general, spoiling for a fight with anyone. It was only seven o’clock and they were already drunk. The table closer to them was a more immediate concern. That would be personal trouble. The big man had been eyeing Beatrice since they walked in despite his hand at her back, despite the baby on her lap and the bold gold ring on her finger. A man who didn’t respect such signs was trouble indeed if he decided to do more than look.
* * *
The first part of the meal went better than expected. The rough inn had an excellent cook. The innkeeper had taken a look at Beatrice with the baby on her lap and had not hesitated to supply the table with the best his kitchen had to offer, perhaps as an apology for not being able to serve them privately. After a day filled with unmet expectations, the excellent meal was more than welcome. The rabbit stew was tasty and seasoned, the bread freshly baked, the wine a nice complement to the meal—so nice, in fact, Preston wondered if it was smuggled. He always wondered. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He and Beatrice were able to exchange a little conversation underneath the noise surrounding them. Baby Matthew was entranced by all the activity around him and was behaving. They were small blessings, like the moment upstairs, when just for a second, everything had been right.
After the day Bea had endured, he wished he could give her more, give her better. Maybe it was that desire to give her more than a rough night out that prompted his decision when the innkeeper had leaned close and whispered there was bread pudding available for dessert for his more discerning customers. Preston had seen Bea’s eyes light up at the mention and he couldn’t say no. He rationalised dinner had gone well enough so far, what would a few more minutes be?
He should have quit while he was ahead. They’d no more than taken two bites of the bread pudding when the big man a few tables over decided to make trouble. ‘What about the rest of us? I want some dessert, too,’ he bawled at the innkeeper. ‘You’ve been sending the best to their table all night long.’
The innkeeper, well used to rough clientele and a burly man himself, was not daunted. ‘Dessert’s for patrons who pay their bill, Burke.’
But Burke wasn’t done. Getting no satisfaction from the innkeeper, he turned his attention to Preston’s table. ‘Maybe I want something else for dessert.’ His eyes passed over Beatrice. Preston readied his fists. There was a fight coming. It was nearly unavoidable. He’d give the man one chance to retreat.
‘My wife doesn’t care for your attentions,’ Preston said firmly, drawing the man’s gaze away from Bea.
‘Your wife is pretty. I’m just wanting a little kiss, we don’t get such pretty ladies in these parts.’ The man was drunk, Preston could smell the alcohol on him, and the man was sizing him up, weighing Preston’s leaner build against his own bulk and coming to certain, rather violent conclusions. Big men always did. Big men thought sheer strength counted for everything, they forgot about other elements like speed and height, and reach and athleticism, and that wasn’t even counting what Preston did for a living. While most of the smugglers were unsophisticated sailors, there were arms dealers who’d been a good deal more dangerous. One drunk man in a tavern didn’t worry him.
Preston rose, exposing his full height up close. ‘Go back to your table before someone gets hurt. My wife doesn’t want to kiss you.’ He was aware that Matthew had begun to cry and the sound of the baby’s distress angered Preston in measure equal to his desire to protect Beatrice from this scum. What sort of man made a baby cry? What sort of man came after another man’s wife?
‘Who do you suppose that someone would be?’ Burke leered. ‘Perhaps you should