The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,21

inches shorter than Benna but he was strong and wiry. Once she was on her feet, he grinned up at her. “You’ll get used to it, lad. I’ll settle up with Courtland. You go grab a cot and get some kip. We’re out again at first light.”

Benna was too tired to speak, every bit of energy needed to walk.

Mr. Courtland had showed her the post boy quarters—an abandoned stable block—when he’d given her the inn livery to change into.

Outside the building was a lantern hanging on a hook, but it was dark.

Benna didn’t care; she could feel her way by touch to an empty cot and—

“There ye are, ye bastard!”

Something hard—a boot?—slammed into Benna’s belly.

“Oooff!” For the second time in as many minutes she fell to the ground.

“Think ye can steal my job, eh? Lift ’im up for me, Nigel, you get ’is other arm, Bob.”

Hands closed around Benna’s shoulders and yanked her to her feet.

‘I’ll teach ye,” a fury-filled voice muttered.

And then her head exploded, lights and pain and a dull ringing sound, like somebody was beating a cowbell with a hammer.

She cowered, trying to lift her arms to guard against more blows, but the men behind her held her immobile.

“Lad’s got a head like a rock,” the first voice—Gary?—said, causing his mates to laugh.

A fist connected with her ribs and Benna doubled over, a yellow light flaring behind her eyelids.

“Now, now, three against one—how unsporting,” a new voice drawled.

As much pain as Benna was feeling she was aware enough to notice that the voice was male and undeniably of the higher orders.

“Who the fuck’r you?” Gary demanded.

“That’s hardly your concern, my lad.”

“Christ, Gary, he’s got a pistol.”

The hands that had been holding her up disappeared and Benna slid to the ground a third time. She rolled onto her side, tucked her chin to her chest, and curled her arms around her aching ribs and belly.

She was only vaguely aware of the sound of boots retreating, and then nothing.

The light, she realized, wasn’t in her head, but from a lantern.

She opened her eyes a crack and looked up into the angelic visage of her rescuer. “Hello, lad.”

“Who—who—”

“Name’s Morecambe, Geoffrey Morecambe. You’re lucky I just happened to be passing this way. Can you stand?”

Benna nodded. “Thank you for your help. But I’m afraid I shall need a bit of assistance.” She extended a shaking hand.

Her savior cocked his head and smiled, exposing white, even teeth to add to his perfection. “Listen to you—speaking the king’s English just like a bloody duke.” His bright blue eyes flickered over Benna’s person. “And wearing postilion livery. Intriguing.”

Before Benna could formulate a response, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.

Benna groaned and swayed.

“Here then, don’t topple over. Put your arm over my shoulder.”

Benna tried to lift her arm but it refused to obey her. She began to list to one side.

“No, no. Don’t—Blast and damn,” he muttered, catching her in strong arms when she would have slid down yet again. “You’ve got to help me a bit, lad. Here, let me get my arm under—”

Benna felt a hand brush the side of her breast; the hand froze.

“What in the—” The hand cupped her breast and squeezed. “Bloody hell, you’re a girl!”

And that was the last thing Benna heard before everything went blessedly black.

Chapter Six

Cornwall

1817

Present Day

Jago had three separate lists along with all the other paperwork he needed for his meetings with solicitors, bankers, and men of business.

“You won’t forget, will you, Uncle?” His youngest niece’s tentative voice pulled him from his contemplation of the day ahead.

Jago feigned a vague expression. “Forget what, my dear?”

Mariah’s sharp chin and cheekbones, more like Jago’s side of the family than her mother’s, tightened in a comical mask of frustration. “Uncle.”

Jago lightly flicked a finger over her clenched jaw; she looked so young and girlish, even though she was seventeen. “No, Mariah, of course I won’t forget. You want me to remind Ben to be on the lookout for a black or gray horse with four white socks, is that correct?”

She grinned in a way that melted his heart. How his brother could have been so dismissive of his daughters mystified Jago. Although he’d only gotten to know his nieces since Cadan’s death he already appreciated having them in his life and enjoyed spending time with them. He was glad they were his responsibility, even if anxiety for their future kept him awake nights.

Catherine sidled up beside her sister, her large blue eyes beseeching. “And you