The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

He left her and moved to the horse, unstrapping her bag. He unbuckled her valise and held it open to her; Prudence removed the cheesecloth from it and unwrapped it. They bent their heads over the cheesecloth at the same time and peered down at the meager portions that were left. There was a bit of cheese, two sweetmeats and the end of a stale loaf of bread. Prudence glanced up at him.

“Well,” Mr. Matheson said sheepishly. “It seems I ate more than I thought I had. Eat what is here. We’ll find a village soon and I’ll see to it you are well fed.”

“There is no next village,” she said morosely as she nibbled a sweetmeat. “We’ve ridden all day and we’ve seen nothing. We must be near Brasenton Park.”

“Near...?”

“The Earl of Cargyle’s estate,” she clarified. “It’s situated between Ashton Down and Himple. Mrs. Bulworth told me it is a vast and untamed estate and this looks vast and untamed to me.”

Mr. Matheson helped himself to a piece of cheese. “I came this way, remember? I would say we’re a half hour from the next settlement at most.”

“A half hour!” she exclaimed, wincing painfully. The thought of getting on that horse again was almost more than she could bear.

“Come,” he said, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Think of the bath you can order the innkeeper to draw for you.”

“A bath,” she said dreamily.

Mr. Matheson helped her up to the back of the horse, then walked beside the lumbering beast, his hand on the bridle to lead them down the road.

It turned out that he was almost right—within a quarter of an hour, as the sun began to slide from the sky, they came upon a tavern. “Aha, food ahoy,” he said, and gave Prudence a pat on her leg.

The tavern sat by itself on the road with no other structures around it. Prudence couldn’t imagine what sort of food it might have—the building looked rather dilapidated, what with its chipped masonry and sagging roof on the right side. There was a single window, which was cranked open.

As they neared the tavern, a man stumbled out of the small door and around the side of the building, disappearing up a well-worn path that led into the woods.

Prudence eyed the structure warily. She’d never thought of herself as particular, but the thought of eating anything that had been cooked in that tavern turned her stomach a bit. “I’m not hungry,” she said anxiously. “There’s no need to go in.”

“Don’t speak to anyone, do you hear?” Mr. Matheson asked, ignoring her. “If someone approaches you, take this horse and ride. You can ride, can’t you?”

“Yes, of course I can. But, really it’s not necessary—”

“No buts, Prudence. Just wait.”

He strode off. Prudence might have argued more firmly for him to continue on, but she’d been momentarily distracted by the way he’d said her given name. As if they were friends. And it sounded so pretty when he said it. Not stiff, as she’d always thought her name to sound on the tongues of Englishmen, as if the pru stuck in their throats. When Mr. Matheson said it, her name sounded sweet. Easy. Happy.

He disappeared inside, and she slid off the horse, taking care to land properly this time, and stood beside the old girl, stroking her neck and watching the door of the tavern. She could hear laughter within, the low voices of men, the shrill voice of a woman. Prudence stepped back into the shadows, her pulse quickening. She had a bad feeling about this place. What was taking him?

The door burst open and Mr. Matheson came striding outside, his pockets bulging, his expression dark.

“What’s the matter?” she cried.

He didn’t answer; he grabbed her by the waist without warning and practically tossed her onto the horse’s back, and in what seemed like almost the same movement, acrobatically put himself behind her. Wrapping one arm tightly around her waist and taking the reins in the other, he whipped the horse about and yelled, “Ha!” at it, sending it into a jarring gallop. Prudence shrieked with surprise and fright as the horse began to move much faster than it had previously allowed was even capable. He drew her hard against him as the horse ran with an uneven gate, bouncing them about like small children on its back.

The horse quickly slowed to ambling however, apparently preferring the slower pace, no matter how much Mr. Matheson begged and cajoled.

Prudence turned and glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see riders close on their heels. But there was no one. “What happened?” she asked. “Why are we fleeing?”

“I didn’t receive a very warm welcome,” he said. “I thought it best not to linger.” He reined the horse off the road, turning her down a path that ran alongside a flowing brook.

“Where are we going?” she asked, peering into the waning light of the day.

“We are stopping for the night,” he said firmly. “The horse is spent.”

“But...but there is no inn! No shelter!” Prudence cried, alarmed. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of it—he’d said a village was close at hand.

“What is it, Prudence? Have you never slept beneath the stars?” he asked, sounding a bit jovial.