"I know what you thought," Anthony said wearily. "Leave the ladies be, at least until you can see straight."
The lad bowed and retreated after his friends with much haste and no dignity.
Anthony sighed and entered the room. "Husband?"
To his surprise, the heroine of the hour blushed. "It was the best I could think of at the time."
"I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have left you."
Even more surprising, her smile glowed with open approval. "You came to my rescue."
His heart performed a strange skipping dance and his mind went flying out of the room. He blinked at her and told himself that he was too old to fall victim to a pretty wench's smile.
And didn't believe a word of it.
To hide his confusion, he turned to close the door. "You were perfectly capable of handling that silly bit of wet string."
"Perhaps." She sat at the small table with a grace that set his wayward heart capering again. What in God's name was wrong with him? "It turned out I didn't have to. Thank you."
He sat opposite her. "On second thought, a thousand guineas is a lot of money."
"Perhaps you should check if the offer's still open," she said tranquilly. "It would save you hauling me all the way to Hampshire."
She was magnificent—and not just because she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. He had no doubt that she was still deathly afraid for her son. And having strange men accost her in a public house would give most ladies the vapors. But she glided through it all with perfect composure.
In London, he'd resigned himself to putting up with a delicate female who found rough travel insupportable. But she'd been as game as a terrier the whole way and hadn't complained once. Even when that inebriated oaf had marched in on her.
A thousand guineas? Ten thousand wouldn't do her justice.
Either he needed to revisit his opinion of upper-class women as basically useless. Or Fenella Deerham was a glorious exception to the rule.
"Actually you haven't been much trouble," he said gruffly. "I might let the lad keep his winnings, instead of spending them on wild women like you."
She was still smiling and his heart returned to cavorting in a most disconcerting manner. "My hero."
The arrival of two mugs of steaming beef tea and a meat pie saved Anthony from responding to her dry remark. But some previously unknown corner of his soul turned romantic and yearned to believe that she meant it.
Which was the most worrying thing of all.
Chapter Four
* * *
Fenella and Mr. Townsend set off from the inn not long afterward, and despite her qualms about the delay, she felt better for the short break and the meal. Even with the added entertainment.
That encounter between Mr. Townsend and the drunken stripling had been telling. It confirmed her suspicion that his earlier behavior wasn't typical. More than her safety—after all, she could have screamed for help if necessary—she'd been afraid her escort might start a brawl which would lead to unbearable delays. But Mr. Townsend had handled the boy with aplomb, and saved both Fenella and their quest. Those huge fists could have made his point, but he'd used his brain instead.
He became more interesting by the hour.
She tucked her chin into the rug to escape the strengthening wind. One gloved hand clutched the side of the rig against the swaying.
"Why don't you try and sleep?" he murmured as they sped past the high walls of some sleeping estate. Since leaving the inn, they'd spoken only a word or two, but the antagonism had vanished.
"I can't." Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Brand coming to grief. Hurt and lying in a ditch. Lost in a wood. Worst of all, struggling to escape some faceless villain's clutches.
"Worrying won't find the lads any quicker."
"I know," she said regretfully. "If it did, they'd be home right now."