Forget his thighs.
Pirates were what he deserved.Definitelypirates.
She rubbed her hands together and bounced as she quickened her steps, consoling herself with the thought that Rayne had no idea he was being abducted. And wouldn’t, if she could help it. Not until she was good and ready.
Then she’d fling open the door and announce…
Then she’d stand arms akimbo, legs spread wide, and demand…
Then she’d…
Then she’d…
Well, she’d figure out the perfect reveal. She’d always been good at finding solutions.
Taking a deep breath, she adopted what she hoped was a footman’s proud saunter and walked straight up to the postilion.
She forced her voice into the lowest register she could manage. “Need help?”
“Oi!” The postilion jumped. He peered over her shoulder to the carriage. “Where did you come from?”
“Been with the carriage all along,” she answered with more bravado than she felt, looping her thumbs into her pockets as Farring sometimes did and sending the postilion a practiced sneer. “I’m his lordship’s footman, of course. You don’t pay much attention, do you?”
The postilion eyed her with suspicion. “Yousureyou been there thewholetime?”
“Daft as well as blind, I see.” She opened her coat, flashing the bright red livery as proof. Not that the postilion could see much in the faint glow of the carriage lamps. “Why else would I be out here in the middle of the night?”
The postilion squinted as he deliberated. “All right, then,” he finally decided. “If you’re his lordship’s footman, you can help me brush old Branson here down. But if you run off with me things, you’ll pay. Won’t get far, you understand. I knoweveryonein these parts. And we don’t like strangers.”
She caught his tossed brush, glancing down at the worn wood and spare bristles. If she needed to “borrow” a brush, she’d pick a better one than this.
She spoke low and soothingly to the horse as she smoothed his soft hair. When she was finished, the beast snuggled at her neck.
The boy turned back from the lead horse and snorted. “Don’t usually like fellers. Does that to my sister, Carol, all the time, though.”
She cleared her throat. “Lucky me.”
He folded his arms. “What did you say your name was?”
She hadn’t. Curse the details. “Stanley.”
The postilion snorted. “Took you a long second.”
“A second is a second,” she quipped. “Not one of them longer than any other. What’syourname, anyway…s?” She added thesa beat too late.
“Jack. You see?Jack. Didn’t have to stop and think about it,Stanley.”
“Here’s your brush, Jack.” She whacked the wood against his palm when he finally held out his hand. “Next time, I won’t offer to help.”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the rail. Even in the darkness, she could see raindrops clinging to the bottom of the handle. Summoning all her determination, she took hold of the cold metal and hefted herself back up onto the rail.
Only now she knew the cold and the wet weren’t her only problems. She’d inadvertently uncovered yet another unfortunate flaw to Farring’s plan.
She could bind her breasts. She could lower her voice. She could even throw a swift punch if she must—she’d grown up sparring with Markham, after all. But despite having collected a dictionary of vile male words she occasionally, silently uttered, she hadno ideahow men interacted when they were alone.
And even less idea how a footman should interact with a postilion.
Her own groom was quiet and gentle. And Samuel Coachman was a prince in livery. But she imagined they related quite differently to each other when she was not around.
