“Better that than…”
Nausea cramped his belly. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might fear assault, although it bloody well should have. His hold on her wriggling body gentled but not enough that she could escape and run out into the cold.
“Stop it, Kit. You’re safe. I swear it on my life.”
She kept squirming like a hooked fish. The lass was surprisingly strong, but then he supposed she must be to have played her part as a stableboy all these weeks. It was clear Joseph Laing hadn’t singled her out by sparing her any of the hard work. “Devil take you, stand still.”
“Will you let me go?”
He hated that she was so scared. Although he imagined fear had been her boon companion for a long time. Only overwhelming fear could have spurred a lass to this desperate masquerade. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”
Quentin lifted his hands away and stepped back, hoping that would calm her. Then had to leap forward to grab her around the waist when she headed straight for the door again. “Damn it, Kit. I told you I mean you no harm. Settle down.”
This time when he faced her, he kept hold of her arms. He’d learned his lesson.
She was panting, and hatred flashed in her eyes as she glared at him. “You have no right to touch me.”
“I do when it’s going to save your damn fool neck,” he retorted.
His eyes roamed her delicate features. Even in that appalling outfit, she was beautiful. The woolen hat tugged low over her forehead couldn’t hide the perfect bone structure or the winged black brows or those flower eyes. That soft, pink mouth never belonged to any stableboy either.
He shook his head in puzzlement. “How the hell did you ever convince anyone that you’re a lad?”
That soft pink mouth set in mutinous lines, and she cast him a fulminating look. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“No, you don’t.” She was like a high-strung filly, flinching at her own shadow and apt to bolt at the merest sound. “But I’ve kept your secret so far. Won’t you trust me?”
She looked bewildered. “You haven’t told anyone?”
“No, on my honor.” He paused. “And I promise I won’t. But you’re obviously in trouble. I’d like to help if I can.”
“You can help by letting me go,” she said sullenly.
“Are you going to take off into the snow?”
She heaved a weighty sigh. “No. You’re faster than I am. You’d catch me before I made it.”
“Very sensible.”
The eyes she raised to his were wary, but the blind panic had receded, thank God. He was poised to chase her again if he had to, but she remained standing in front of him, surveying him as if she expected him to bite her. Quentin wasn’t a vain man, but he was used to people liking him, especially the lassies. This fear and suspicion wasn’t the usual female reaction to his interest.
As a sign of good faith, he released her arms. “Come back to the fire. It’s cold as a penguin’s parlor over here.”
He turned to right the overturned stool and lowered himself to sit. All the time, he watched the girl, his muscles taut with readiness, in case she made a break for it.
But it seemed she’d accepted his assurances that she was safe, at least for the moment. Hesitantly she picked her way across the floor to collapse in a defeated slump on the other stool.
He pulled out the silver flask and extended it in her direction. “Would you like some more whisky?”
“No, thank you.” Whoever she was, she’d been brought up with good manners. But he’d long ago noticed that the new stableboy had a refined air, incongruous in such a low-placed servant. The erratic Highland brogue had disappeared now, too, he noticed.
By God, he needed a drink, even if she didn’t. He loathed seeing the dread in her eyes. Whatever she was running from, it was bad enough to have taught her to fear. He hated to think of anyone mistreating this girl, who was such an intriguing mixture of strength and vulnerability. Not to mention so devilish pretty.
He took a mouthful of whisky and slid the flask back into his pocket while he considered the best way of going about gaining her trust. He decided to start with something reasonably simple. “What’s your name?”
“Kit.”
He bit back a sigh. “No, your real name.”
“That is my real name.” She bent her head and plucked at a loose thread on that voluminous and hideously ugly coat. Quentin had already worked out that she wore it because she could hide an elephant under there and nobody would know.
He didn’t push for an answer and after a moment, she cast him a quick glance from under thick black eyelashes. “You won’t betray me?”
He spread his hands to convey his harmlessness. “I haven’t yet.”
Another silence, while he felt like she weighed his soul in the balance. Then the tense line of her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “My father called me Kit.”
“Short for Catriona or Katherine or Christina?”
“Christabel.”
“Ah.” An unusual name for an unusual girl. Not just because she was dressed as a boy. He’d been watching her since she’d first caught his attention. Even dressed in the conventional style, she’d be out of the common run of females. “That’s pretty.”
“Thank you. Mamma loved poetry.”
“Coleridge?”
She looked startled. “You know it?”
“I do. It’s a strange and beautiful work. The name suits you.” He gave a huff of wry laughter. “No, don’t go all prickly on me again. I can’t help noticing what a bonny girl you are. Nonetheless I can restrain my masculine impulses.”
He didn’t push for the rest of her name. Not yet.
After a bristling pause, she went on. “To Mamma’s dismay, I was more interested in horses than books, so Kit was the name that stuck.”
“You’re very good with the horses.” He kept his voice neutral.
“Horses don’t lie, and there’s no spite in them.”
Something cold hardened her expression, made her look momentarily older. Most stable lads were twelve or thirteen. Quentin had assumed Kit might be sixteen or seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Now he looked more closely, he saw signs of maturity that he’d missed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty, nearly twenty-one.”
Not much younger than his twenty-four. “Your parents are still alive?”
If they were, what did they make of their daughter’s disappearance? When she spoke of them, he’d heard affection in her voice. Surely they weren’t the people who had made her scared enough to embark on this mad escapade. The moment he recognized how afraid she was, he’d discounted the slim chance that she played some prank. Whatever the reasons for her disguise, they stemmed from no idle whim.
Sadness shadowed her large eyes. By God, he’d heard sentimental nonsense about the eyes being windows to the soul, but in Kit’s case, it really was true. “Mamma died when I was ten. Papa died two years ago.”
Quentin frowned. “So you told me the truth about that?”
“Aye, sir.” The answer was a touching reminder of the shy stableboy.
“So the stepbrother exists, too?”