The parcel of sheet music landed some yards distant. Her “plan” was now a mud-stained, wheel-rutted smear on the street.
“Devil take you,” the driver cursed her from the box, brandishing his horsewhip. “A fine little witch you are. Near overset my whole cart.”
“I—I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”
He cracked his whip against the cobblestones. “Out of my way, then. You unnatural little—”
As he raised his whip for another strike, Kate flinched and ducked.
No blow came.
A man stepped between her and the cart. “Threaten her again,” she heard him warn the driver in a low, inhuman growl, “and I will whip the flesh from your miserable bones.”
Chilling, those words. But effective. The cart swiftly rolled away.
As strong arms pulled her to her feet, Kate’s gaze climbed a veritable mountain of man. She saw black, polished boots. Buff breeches stretched over granite thighs. A distinctive red wool officer’s coat.
Her heart jumped. She knew this coat. She’d probably sewn the brass buttons on these cuffs. This was the uniform of the Spindle Cove militia. She was in familiar arms. She was saved. And when she lifted her head, she was guaranteed to find a friendly face, unless . . .
“Miss Taylor?”
Unless.
Unless it was him.
“Corporal Thorne,” she whispered.
On another day, Kate could have laughed at the irony. Of all the men to come to her rescue, it would be this one.
“Miss Taylor, what the devil are you doing here?”
At his rough tone, all her muscles pulled tight. “I . . . I came into town to purchase new sheet music for Miss Elliott, and to . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to mention calling on Miss Paringham. “But I dropped my parcel, and now I’ve missed the stage home. Silly me.”
Silly, foolish, shame-marked, unwanted me.
“And now I’m truly stuck, I’m afraid. If only I’d brought a little more money, I could afford a room for the evening, then go back to Spindle Cove tomorrow.”
“You’ve no money?”
She turned away, unable to bear the chastisement in his gaze.
“What were you thinking, traveling all this distance alone?”
“I hadn’t any choice.” Her voice caught. “I am completely alone.”
His grip firmed on her arms. “I’m here. You’re not alone now.”
Hardly poetry, those words. A simple statement of fact. They scarcely shared the same alphabet as kindness. If true comfort were a nourishing, wholemeal loaf, what he offered her were a few stale crumbs.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She was a starving girl, and she hadn’t the dignity to refuse.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed, choking back a sob. “You’re not going to like this.”
And with that, Kate fell into his immense, rigid, unwilling embrace—and wept.
Bloody hell.
She burst into tears. Right there in the street, for God’s sake. Her lovely face screwed up. She bent forward until her forehead met his chest, and then she heaved a loud, wrenching sob.
Then a second. And a third.
His gelding danced sideways, and Thorne shared the beast’s unease. Given a choice between watching Miss Kate Taylor weep and offering his own liver to carrion birds, he would have had his knife out and sharpened before the first tear rolled down her face.
He clucked his tongue softly, which did some good toward calming the horse. It had no effect on the girl. Her slender shoulders convulsed as she wept into his coat. His hands remained fixed on her arms.
In a desperate gesture, he slid them up. Then down.
No help.
What’s happened? he wanted to ask. Who’s hurt you? Who can I maim or kill for distressing you this way?
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away after some minutes had passed.
“Why?”
“For weeping all over you. Forcing you to hold me. I know you must hate it.” She fished a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Her nose and eyes were red. “I mean, not that you don’t like holding women. Everyone in Spindle Cove knows you like women. I’ve heard far more than I care to hear about your—”
She paled and stopped talking.
Just as well.
He took the horse’s lead in one hand and laid the other hand to Miss Taylor’s back, guiding her out of the street. Once they reached the side of the lane, he looped his horse’s reins about a post and turned his sights toward making her comfortable. There wasn’t anywhere for her to sit. No bench, no crate.
This disturbed him beyond reason.
His gaze went to a tavern across the street—the sort of establishment he’d never allow her to enter—but he was seriously considering crossing the lane, toppling the first available drunk off his seat, and dragging the vacated chair out for her. A woman shouldn’t weep while standing. It didn’t seem right.
“Please, can’t you just loan me a few shillings?” she asked. “I’ll find an inn for the night, and I won’t trouble you any further.”
“Miss Taylor, I can’t lend you money to pass the night alone in a coaching inn. It’s not safe.”