A Royal Kiss and Tell

‘Quickly, unstrap her luggage,’ Jane told the postilion. ‘That wicker hamper and the small brown valise there.’ The stranger would have to look after himself for the moment because she needed to find her purse.

Just as Jane unrolled two banknotes Billing came marching out again without, of course, any water, but flanked by two anxious-looking waiters.

‘What’s about, Miss Jane? Those are my bags there.’

‘Billing, you are going home to Dorset. There is your luggage, here is more than enough money for the stage—you can pay for decent rooms and food on your way and a girl to accompany you. This seems a most respectable inn so I am sure they will advise you and let you hire one of the maids for the journey.’ She thrust the notes into the spluttering woman’s hands and closed the door. ‘Drive on!’

The postilion obeyed, ignoring Billing’s indignant cries as they rattled off down the road again. Jane flopped back against the seat. All things considered, a silent, if battered, man was a far more pleasant travelling companion than Billing with her sour face and nagging voice. Jane shifted on the seat to look at him more closely. He was also considerably better to look at than Billing although, even accounting for bruises, dirt and blood, he was no Adonis. On the other hand, she was now responsible for him, she had no experience of nursing wounded men and goodness knew what he would prove to be like when he regained consciousness. The quality of the coat did promise a certain gentility, at least, although, gravedigger or gentry, she would still have rescued anyone from a beating if she could.

Melissa would be deeply envious. This was the kind of adventure she was always writing about and which, Jane was certain, she yearned to experience for herself. She would just have to make do with letters, which were bound to be less enthralling than Melissa would have hoped. On the other hand, Jane could draw as vividly as her friend could write, which should make up for a lack of dramatic description. With a quick check to make certain the wounded man was still unconscious and the bleeding was under control, Jane took her sketch pad and a pencil from the door pocket and flipped back the cover.

Where the devil am I?

Ivo thought about opening his eyes, then decided against it. Everything hurt, but no one was thumping him at the moment, which was a decided improvement, and there was no point in jeopardising that to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, he appeared to be in a moving vehicle and the only thing that he could smell was leather and a decidedly piquant floral perfume.

From the motion of the vehicle he deduced that he was in a post chaise and, from the perfume, that he had been rescued by a lady. That was embarrassing, but preferable to remaining with the brutes that Daphne had set on him. The reality of the transformation in the woman who had once told him that she adored him and would wait for him was not something that he had the strength to consider now. What he would feel when he allowed himself to think of it was beside the point, he told himself. All that really mattered was that he could not honour his promise to his friend, her brother, as he lay dying. That failure was a damned sight more painful than whatever was wrong with his left shoulder.

Distantly he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses, the postilion’s occasional shouted order to them as the chaise creaked and the wheels rumbled. Under those sounds there was a strange scratch-scritch noise, almost a whisper, right on the edge of his consciousness.... It was rather soothing.

The chaise was slowing, turning, stopping. There was noise from outside. Ivo dragged open his lids and found himself staring into a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes.

‘Oh, good, you are awake. I was wondering how we were ever going to get you out of the carriage if you were not. You are rather large,’ the owner of the eyes added critically. ‘And bloody. And dirty.’

He blinked and she moved back, which at least meant he could get her into focus through the headache. Mousy brown hair, freckles, a heart-shaped face. Not pretty, certainly not compared to Daphne’s exquisite blonde delicacy, but the overall effect was vaguely feline in an amiable sort of way. A gentle waft of warm female and floral scent tickled his nose.

‘Do you think you can get out and into the inn? I have asked one of the grooms to help.’ She smiled at him, her head tipped to one side. Smiles were preferable to beauty, just at the moment.

Ivo felt as though he was being studied in order to give an accurate description to the Runners and blinked again. It was possible that he was concussed and imagining this. Ladies did not stare closely at men. Nor did they drag them out of the middle of fights into their carriages, as his vague memory told him this one had done.