“You can't sleep on that horrid thing! I'm fairly certain it's older than my mother.” She regarded the ancient piece in horror. She and Brydie had recovered it one year when they'd discovered a faded bolt of tapestry in the attic, but the cushions still sagged.
“Give me a blanket and I'll be fine.” He began examining the windows. “Far better than sleeping on snow and rocks.”
She opened her mouth but no words emerged. Why argue?
She wanted the grumpy giant half a house away from her bedchamber.
Ten
Fletch
Lying on the lumpy cushion he’d removed to the floor, with his stocking feet hanging off the edge, Fletch counted imaginary sheep. The Calhoun farm must once have had huge herds to have accumulated enough wealth to build this sturdy farmhouse.
The sheep were his only diversion from thoughts of the ripe female sleeping upstairs. How could a once-married woman be as unaware of his lascivious thoughts as an innocent maid? He'd thought her a dormant volcano coming to life, but the ice encasing her had to be glacier deep. He'd practiced his very best behavior, and she hadn't cast him a single glance.
Obviously, he thought too highly of himself.
He'd looked for a clock to occupy his mind, but the only one he'd found had been properly cleaned and functional. He should have brought an automaton to work on.
He had little chance of finding sleep when he guarded a houseful of helpless innocents instead of armed soldiers. Giving him the responsibility of protecting women and children was completely crackbrained.
He'd already patrolled the four lower rooms twice. The family apparently didn't use the formal dining room, judging by the bare cot and bedstand blocking the fancy dining table and sideboard. Recalling both Kate’s husband and mother had died of lingering illnesses, he assumed it must have been used as a sickroom.
The fourth room was a very neat study lined with books. He'd resisted examining the ledgers. His hands worked better than his head, and he was lousy with pounds and shillings. He’d been relieved when Rafe’s schoolteacher wife had taken over the inn’s accounts.
Hearing a lone horse clip-clopping down the lane, Fletch reared up. A lone horse at this hour, on this lane that went nowhere, was not normal—unless Brydie had thrown out Damien and he was going back to the Hall at midnight.
Fletch threw aside the feminine quilt little Lynly had carried down. She said she'd made it, and he'd done his best to admire the satin stars and flowers properly. She'd seemed pleased.
He'd never had siblings, never had use for children. They seemed to be one more responsibility he couldn't manage. At least, Kate’s pair were old enough to be almost interesting, in a distant sort of way.
Using his one good hand, he pulled on his short boots. Tall ones were currently out of the question.
The horse trotted closer—up the drive? Not exactly the hour for a social call. The fury that had kept him alive through years of war rose as he primed the Morgans’ ancient shotgun. It was doubtful he could kill so much as a rat with it, especially balancing it awkwardly with his arm in a sling, but he only had his knives on him. He’d adapt.
Kate had insisted on leaving the lunatic’s satchel outside, in the arched entryway. She was being thoughtful. Fletch thought of it as bait and waited for the human rat to nibble.
Kneeling behind the drapery, he eased the barrel through the space he'd left between the shutters and the open window frame. His line of sight was limited to anyone approaching the entrance from the drive.
There the bastard was. He must have tied his horse to a hitching post because he was on foot now. The intruder didn’t limp but seemed to favor his side, holding an arm against his chest. Good. Morgan ought to suffer too.
Fletch’s rage rose another notch. Detesting his current state of helplessness, knowing he’d wake the household, he didn't wait to see if the lunatic grabbed the valise. A good hunter eliminated vermin. Unfortunately, this rat was human, and he retained enough sense to not go for the kill. Adjusting his position to follow Morgan’s approach, he balanced the barrel on the sill. When Hugh reached for the bag, Fletch aimed at his boots and relished the pull of the trigger.
The blast rattled his teeth and jarred loose the mindless surge of war fever. Above, Kate screamed. Caught up in the black rage of battle, Fletch didn’t register anything but the enemy. He reached for an ancient loaded pistol and shoved the window higher, intent on capture.
Insanely, the lunatic grabbed the satchel, then hobbled off on his smoking boot. Damn. Hard to stop heavy boots with buckshot.
The enemy was escaping! Before he could step over the sill and aim higher, Kate ran down the stairs and flung herself at his back.
His brainbox completely disconnected.
While he stood there, frozen, she pushed away to pat his bound arm and chest. “Are you hurt? Did he shoot you? I can't bear this.”
Him? She worried over his worthless hide?
She yanked open the draperies to look out. Fletch came unstuck enough to haul her back. “Stay away from the window!”
The need to hunt the enemy resumed, full force. He couldn’t let the bastard escape to try another day. Unable to move the sofa from the door swiftly enough, he climbed out the window in time to see his victim hobble to his horse.
