Page 29 of Lord of Mistrust

Robert’s fists clenched. “Let there be no more casualties in this battle,” he ground out. “I’ll have no more innocents endangered either. While I see to Mistress Emmerson, send word to Walsingham. We need trained soldiers and expert information gatherers to deal with these merciless dogs. Have a watch put on the mill in hopes the man who escaped you at Ralston Hill returns to their den. If he hasn’t shown up by dawn tomorrow, you may search the bodies, then dispose of them. Take anything you find straight to Walsingham.”

He felt Chloe stir and tightened his arm. “That done, I’d be grateful if you’d have the nearby outbuildings searched. We are owed two horses, a litter, and Mistress Emmerson’s luggage. Those can be sent back to the White Hart.”

Bidding the man adieu, he took Chloe’s elbow and escorted her into the inn, where a warm welcome greeted them. Chloe was borne away by Goody Hazelthwaite, eager to offer her washing things and refreshment. A physician was sent for, whom Robert sent straight up to Chloe before allowing the fellow to look at his wound. It was pronounced clean, lathered with a strong-smelling salve, and bound up with fresh bandages. Robert refused to take any tisanes, concoctions, decoctions, or nostrums, preferring brandywine—his usual remedy for pain.

He then drowsed in a chair in a private parlor, trying not to worry too much about what was afoot in his absence. Tilshead was a good man, and a trustworthy one, as was Whiteley. And if Walsingham was able to send help swiftly, they might be able to net every last plotter in this particular viper’s nest.

He roused a little when the missing horses and litter were returned and directed that they should be sent to the driver’s widow, along with a purse of gold from his own pocket, and his deepest condolences. He could not rid himself of a sickening feeling of guilt over the man’s loss. Had he not embroiled Chloe in this affair, the litter would not have been attacked, and the man would even now be sitting under his own roof, taking his ease. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

There was no sign of Chloe. He put a few further plans into action, then dined alone, assuming she must be asleep. He was desperate to see her, but didn’t want to sully her reputation any further with his presence.

“Robert?”

The soft voice had him leaping to his feet. He bowed deeply. “Mistress Emmerson. Chloe.”

She looked well, quite beautiful, in fact, despite the deep bruise where that vile Spaniard had hit her. His fists curled, and he found he could not regret disposing of the man who had so trespassed.

She stood before him, fingers awkwardly entwined. How he longed to hold her and make her forget her fears! But he contented himself with the possession of her fingers, which he conveyed to his lips.

“How is your arm?”

“Sore.” Bless her, for caring about him. “But it is of little matter. I don’t want to alarm you, my sweet, but I’ve asked for men to guard the inn tonight. One will be below your window, so be not afeared if you see him skulking in the shadows. Let us hope Tilshead’s men will apprehend the remaining villain ere long. I know I shall breathe the easier for it.”

She transfixed him with her hazel gaze, and his heart raced.

“Thank you, Robert.”

He loved the sound of his name on her lips. Had the circumstances of their meeting been less catastrophic, he would have given thanks. But the deaths of men, both guilty and innocent, weighed heavily on his conscience. He had much to remedy.

“Chloe. Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve put you through?”

She colored charmingly, belying the strength of purpose and the indomitable will that lay beneath the sweetness. “Robert, I forgive you with all my heart. You saved my life today, at considerable cost to yourself.”

He nodded his appreciation, his heart too full for words. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

She gazed at him expectantly, her luscious lips slightly parted, as if waiting for his kiss. But that way madness lay. He’d endangered his mission and put both their lives at risk—he must not touch her again. She’d refused the protection of his name, so they must take their separate paths, and pray no one ever found out what had passed between them.

Particularly not Sir Mortimer Fowler.

“Your pardon, but I expect to be much occupied upon the morrow, and you must be seen safe back to your aunt and uncle. We both need our rest. I bid you goodnight.”

Like a churl, he refused to meet her gaze and didn’t look up again until he heard the door close behind her. Then he yelled for the landlord to bring him more brandywine. He meant to sleep deep and dreamless this night.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chloe awoke well after cockcrow the following day. Stretching her aching limbs, she revisited the events of the previous day and touched a hand to her sore cheek. Robert had been so angry that she’d been struck, but her tormentors had paid the price. He was not a man to be crossed, was Sir Robert Mallory. Courageous, warrior-like, unyielding.

Yet he was tender, too—she could recall the feel of his cradling arms on the ride back to the inn, and the softness in his voice when he’d called her “sweeting”. His warmth had enveloped her, his indomitable maleness infusing her with a complex mixture of security, excitement, and elation.

But, of course, some of his behavior was simply down to his gentlemanly code of upbringing. He’d done his duty and saved her. His honeyed words had been to calm her. Because no man of his rank could ever have more than a passing interest in the bastard daughter of a whore.

Enough of such melancholy! She must dress and break her fast, after which she would feel far less maudlin. And she’d see Robert. The very thought of him set her heart a-flutter.

Only, he was not to be found. There was no guard outside her chamber when she opened it, and no one to be seen in the downstairs room where a table had been laid with a simple repast of bread and coddled eggs. A trickle of anxiety slid down her spine, and her hunger vanished. Was he still abed in the hayloft? He’d taken a wound yesterday—had it worsened in the night?

She hurried out into the hazy morning sunshine and made straight for the stables where she called his name, but there was no answer.

A creaking hinge made her spin around with her heart in her mouth. But it was just Sim, bearing a pail of water in his hand.