Return Of Scandal's Son. Janice Preston
face he saw and he knew, deep in his gut, that she might now be dead, had they not swapped accommodation.
‘I am certain of it,’ he replied. ‘We must enquire at the posting inns we pass, to find out if they have changed horses. We can ask if anyone knows where they plan to stop for the night. Whoever was responsible for the accident and the attack clearly knows the route she is taking and could try again.’
‘Last night brought it all back, didn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘You aren’t responsible. You weren’t responsible. You can’t protect the whole world and everyone in it.’
Matthew clenched his jaw. Henry had been with him since the early days in India, and was a trusted employee, taking on the roles of both servant and groom as required. He knew Henry referred to Uncle Percy’s death, but Matthew was still haunted by his insistence on going out that night. If only he had been at home... The guilt had near overwhelmed him at the time. His uncle’s death had spurred Matthew’s decision to return home. There was no one to anchor him to India now and he and Benedict could run their business equally well from England.
He was driven by the need to protect. It was in his nature, a part of him, but that did not fully explain why the thought of Eleanor being hurt made his stomach clench with such fear. Frustration flooded him as their progress was slowed by the need to enquire for the travellers at every likely-looking inn they passed, and the need to rest his own horses.
‘Where on earth can they be?’ he bit out, as they drew yet another blank. ‘They must have stopped for the night by now.’
‘Maybe they just had too much of a head start on us, sir. Now, don’t bite my head off, but them cattle are getting weary and you’ll be risking their tendons if we carry on much further.’
Matthew knew Henry was right. He cast a worried look at the sun, sinking to the horizon, then straightened in his seat as a milestone proclaimed they were one mile from Leek.
‘This must be it,’ he muttered. ‘They surely can’t have gone any further today. They have to be here.’
* * *
Shortly afterwards, they drew up in the yard of the George, situated right in the middle of the small market town, where the first person they saw was Timothy. Leaving Henry to see to the horses, Matthew strode into the inn, breathing easily—it seemed—for the first time that day.
‘William Brooke at your service, sir—landlord of this fine hostelry. How may I be of assistance?’
‘Good evening, Brooke. I understand Lady Ashby is a guest here tonight? I wish to see her.’
The innkeeper lowered his gaze. ‘Lady Ashby, sir? I’m sure I couldn’t say. Might I ask who is enquiring?’
Matthew resisted the urge to grab the fool by his neck. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Brooke. ‘My good man,’ he announced haughtily, ‘I am Lord Ashby. Now, please be so good as to conduct me to my wife.’
The innkeeper bowed low, almost wringing his hands in his obsequiousness. ‘My humblest apologies, my lord, I wasn’t expecting you. Your lady is in the private parlour, if you would please follow me?’
Matthew followed Brooke along a passageway to the rear of the inn. The innkeeper paused outside a closed door and Matthew stayed him before he could announce Matthew’s presence.
‘Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. If you could see that we are not disturbed, I should be grateful.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ Brooke backed away, bowing as he retreated.
The fear that had plagued Matthew since before dawn that morning receded only to be replaced by a rush of anger, stoked by Brooke’s meek acceptance of his identity.
I could be anybody.
He hauled the door open and stepped inside the room.
There, sitting at her ease on a comfortable sofa, glass of wine in hand, was the object of all his fretting and fears throughout the long day. Relief exploded through him and all his pent-up emotions surged to the fore as he slammed the door shut and crossed the room in three swift strides.
Eleanor’s eyes flew open, fear seizing her throat as the door crashed shut, startling her from her drowsy thoughts. She barely had time to register his identity before Matthew Thomas was looming over her, taking her glass from her hand and hauling her to her feet. Before she could utter a word, she found herself clasped in a pair of strong arms, her head pressed hard against a broad chest, the sound of his heart thundering in her ear.
‘Thank God you are safe.’
As soon as his hold relaxed, she pushed her hands between them, against his chest, leaning back to look into his face.
‘Mr Thomas...whatever is wrong? Why are you here?’
He met her gaze with eyes that swirled with anger and fear. What had happened? Why was he so anxious? How had he found her? She gradually became aware of their surroundings. They were entirely alone, in the private parlour she had reserved for use by herself and Aunt Lucy, who was resting in her room. How did he get in? Where was Brooke?
Matthew held her gaze, his ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room. She pushed harder against him and stepped back. Instantly, his gaze sharpened and he gripped her shoulders, preventing her from retreating further, wringing a gasp from her.
‘I have been searching for you...following you...trying to catch up with you...worrying about you...’
‘But...why? I thought you were—’
‘You need protection. I—’
‘Protection?’
Eleanor, now with her wits fully about her, stiffened. This was about Aunt Lucy’s ludicrous idea that the fire and the shooting were somehow connected. For one fleeting, joyful second she had thought maybe he had followed her for her own sake—because he felt something for her. As speedily as the thought arose, she quashed it, inwardly berating herself for being a romantic fool, beguiled by a handsome face and rugged charm. She and Mr Thomas were worlds apart.
‘It seems to me the only protection I am in need of is from you.’
Her heart quailed as his eyes flared and he stepped closer. The heat emanating from him surrounded her as his breath fanned her hair, but she was determined not to reveal her rising alarm and stood her ground, glaring up at him as his eyes pierced hers.
‘A young girl was attacked—’ He stopped abruptly, his voice cracking with emotion, his expression haunted.
‘What...? Attacked? But...what has that to do with me?’
‘I’ve been frantic. If anything had happened to you, I—’
‘Mr Thomas! You’re making no sense. You said someone had been attacked?’
Matthew swiped one hand through his disordered locks and took a hasty turn about the room, returning to stand in front of an increasingly concerned Eleanor.
He hauled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘She was asleep in the room that had been reserved for you. At the inn in Stockport. Luckily, she screamed and fought him off for long enough for help to arrive. Her attacker ran away, but she ended up with several knife wounds.’
‘Oh, the poor, poor thing.’ Eleanor’s stomach churned as the full significance of Matthew’s words finally sank in. ‘But...you said...in my room? That poor girl was attacked in the bed I would have slept in?’
Her hand rose to her mouth and she felt herself sway. Matthew was by her side instantly, arms around her as she leant gratefully into his solid strength. He helped her to the sofa and sat by her side, holding her hand, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.