The Hired Hero by Andrea Pickens

have no understanding of yours—oh, damn it!” Another trickle had started down her cheek and she dashed it away with the sleeve of her coat. “I don’t care that you hate me. Just get me to London. The sooner you do so, the sooner you shall have your money and be done with it.”
    Davenport reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Without a word, he dabbed gently at the other cheek.
      “I...never  cry.” She took a deep breath, furious with herself.
     “I’m sure you do not.”
     She twisted from his reach. “Just leave me alone.”
     He rose and left without a word.
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Chapter 5
    The third ale still could not drown out the nagging of his conscience. Davenport knew he had been behaving very badly. He set the pint down with a thump and pushed away the unappealing supper, having lost his appetite as well.
    Confound the chit. He sighed as he took another long draught. He had a right to be angry with her. After all, she had no right to drag him into her problems when he had more than enough of his own to deal with. It was not his fault that she had chosen a man who beat her, who wanted to batter down all independent thought and spirit, until she was no more than a hollow vessel, drained and empty. He stared at his own empty glass. Perhaps the fault wasn’t his, but the choice ultimately had been. And something about the look in those bravely defiant eyes had made it impossible to turn away.
    No, in all honesty it was not her weakness that angered him, it was his own.
    He ordered another ale.
    An involuntary smile stole across his lips. Weakness was not the exact word for the exasperating young lady he mused, as he recalled the past few days since she had stumbled into his life. She had faced pain and fatigue with more courage than most men. And her spirited defiance of his demands showed pluck to the bone. Why, even her recent tears had been no ploy to pull at his sympathy. The difference between this young lady who called herself Caroline and Helen was—no, he refused to dwell on such things. He drained the last dregs and rose. Damnation, let them both go to the devil. That was what they had chosen.
    However he would endeavor to be more civil.
    As the earl made his way upstairs, a rough hewn man seated in the dark recesses of the tap room sidled out of his chair and slipped out the door. It would be a long walk and the night was turning raw. But the reward would more than make up for any discomfort. After all, the flash cove had promised a guinea for a description of any travelers passing through the area. The man scratched at his stubbly chin. The tall, dark-haired fellow was easy enough—he had gotten a good look at him throughout the evening. The young groom was a more of a problem. He hadn’t been able to see that one’s face at all, or more than a hint of straw colored hair from under the large cap. But at least he could give a fair picture of the lad’s height and slight build. That should be enough—the toff couldn’t expect him to paint a bloody portrait now, could he?
    * * * *
    The cry was soft enough that Davenport wasn’t sure whether he had dreamed it. The second one, louder and sharper, brought him fully alert. The noise was going to rouse one of the other lodgers if it kept up. He slipped from his bed and went to kneel beside her. Her covers were in disarray, exposing her nightrail to nearly the waist. The top buttons had come undone and Davenport couldn’t help noticing that she looked—well, even less like a groom than before. Her hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, and one hand was gripping the folded jacket beneath her head, as if she feared that someone might want to make away with the ratty garment.
    “I’m not afraid, Luce,” she muttered. Her other hand was clenched in a fist and the earl took it between his own long fingers and tried to ease away the tension.
    “It’s all right,” he said softly.
     “No!” She sat bolt upright, her eyes betraying first