A Lady by Midnight Read Free Page B

horse bucked and whinnied. She looked up from where she’d crouched in the lane to see two windmilling, iron-shoed hooves, big as dinner plates, preparing to demolish her.
    A woman screamed.
    Kate threw her weight to one side. The horse’s hooves landed just to her left. With a squalling hiss of the brake, a cartwheel screeched to halt—inches from crushing her leg.
    The parcel of sheet music landed some yards distant. Her “plan” was now a mud-stained, wheel-rutted smear on the street.
    “Devil take you,” the driver cursed her from the box, brandishing his horsewhip. “A fine little witch you are. Near overset my whole cart.”
    “I—I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”
    He cracked his whip against the cobblestones. “Out of my way, then. You unnatural little—”
    As he raised his whip for another strike, Kate flinched and ducked.
    No blow came.
    A man stepped between her and the cart. “Threaten her again,” she heard him warn the driver in a low, inhuman growl, “and I will whip the flesh from your miserable bones.”
    Chilling, those words. But effective. The cart swiftly rolled away.
    As strong arms pulled her to her feet, Kate’s gaze climbed a veritable mountain of man. She saw black, polished boots. Buff breeches stretched over granite thighs. A distinctive red wool officer’s coat.
    Her heart jumped. She knew this coat. She’d probably sewn the brass buttons on these cuffs. This was the uniform of the Spindle Cove militia. She was in familiar arms. She was saved. And when she lifted her head, she was guaranteed to find a friendly face, unless . . .
    “Miss Taylor?”
    Unless.
    Unless it was him.
    “Corporal Thorne,” she whispered.
    On another day, Kate could have laughed at the irony. Of all the men to come to her rescue, it would be this one.
    “Miss Taylor, what the devil are you doing here?”
    At his rough tone, all her muscles pulled tight. “I . . . I came into town to purchase new sheet music for Miss Elliott, and to . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to mention calling on Miss Paringham. “But I dropped my parcel, and now I’ve missed the stage home. Silly me.”
    Silly, foolish, shame-marked, unwanted me.
    “And now I’m truly stuck, I’m afraid. If only I’d brought a little more money, I could afford a room for the evening, then go back to Spindle Cove tomorrow.”
    “You’ve no money?”
    She turned away, unable to bear the chastisement in his gaze.
    “What were you thinking, traveling all this distance alone?”
    “I hadn’t any choice.” Her voice caught. “I am completely alone.”
    His grip firmed on her arms. “I’m here. You’re not alone now.”
    Hardly poetry, those words. A simple statement of fact. They scarcely shared the same alphabet as kindness. If true comfort were a nourishing, wholemeal loaf, what he offered her were a few stale crumbs.
    It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. She was a starving girl, and she hadn’t the dignity to refuse.
    “I’m so sorry,” she managed, choking back a sob. “You’re not going to like this.”
    And with that, Kate fell into his immense, rigid, unwilling embrace—and wept.
    B loody hell.
    She burst into tears. Right there in the street, for God’s sake. Her lovely face screwed up. She bent forward until her forehead met his chest, and then she heaved a loud, wrenching sob.
    Then a second. And a third.
    His gelding danced sideways, and Thorne shared the beast’s unease. Given a choice between watching Miss Kate Taylor weep and offering his own liver to carrion birds, he would have had his knife out and sharpened before the first tear rolled down her face.
    He clucked his tongue softly, which did some good toward calming the horse. It had no effect on the girl. Her slender shoulders convulsed as she wept into his coat. His hands remained fixed on her arms.
    In a desperate gesture, he slid them up. Then down.
    No help.
    What’s happened? he wanted to ask. Who’s hurt you? Who can I maim or