Leaping to her feet, Caroline aimed the shotgun at the man’s chest. “Who are you?”
He looked at her as if she were no more dangerous than a gnat. Refusing to blink, she stared down the barrel at a man who looked more like a scarecrow than an outlaw. Tall and gaunt, he had hair the color of straw and eyes so red-rimmed they seemed more gray than blue. His clothes hung on his broad shoulders, but there was no mistaking the fine tailoring. She took in the creases around his mouth, his stubbled jaw and finally the boots that reached to his knees. Black and spit-shined, they didn’t belong to a shiftless outlaw.
She couldn’t say the same for the pistol in his hand. It was loose and pointed downward, but she felt the threat. She dug the shotgun into her shoulder. “Throw down your gun!”
He raised one eyebrow. “I’d prefer to holster it, if you don’t mind.”
That voice … it reminded her of a fog bell coming out of a mist, a warning she remembered from the Carolina shore, the place of her birth and the reason for her name. She heard the trace of an accent she couldn’t identify, not the boisterous timbre of an Englishman or a German, but the muted tones of a man who’d worked to leave the past behind.
When she didn’t speak, he holstered the gun then looked at her with his hands slightly away from his body, taking in her appearance with a flick of his eyes. Caroline knew what he’d see … A woman with an average face and an average figure, past her prime but young enough to want a husband. For a few months she’d once been secretly married, but he’d see a spinster. A woman desperate enough for a family that she’d decided to become a governess. If she couldn’t have children of her own, she’d borrow them.
First, though, she had to get rid of this unknown man studying her with both fascination and fury.
“Get your hands up!” she ordered.
He kept them loose at his sides. “Perhaps—”
“Raise them!”
He let out a sigh worthy of a frustrated king. “If you insist.”
Slowly he raised his arms, holding her gaze with a force that nearly made her cower. When his hands were shoulder-high, palm out so she that she could see the aristocratic length of his fingers, he lowered his chin. “Perhaps, Miss Bradley, you’d allow me to introduce myself?”
The accent was no longer muffled. Thick and English, it held a command that made her lower the shotgun. She didn’t need to hear Tristan Willoughby Smith say his name to know she’d just met her future employer, and that she’d impressed him … in all the wrong ways.
Chapter Two
“Major Smith!”
Tristan arched one brow at the stunned brunette. “May I lower my hands now?”
“Of course.” Most people groveled when they realized they’d stepped on his toes. Caroline Bradley snapped to attention but not in the way of an underling. She looked him square in the eye. “I’m sure you understand my reaction. As you can see, the stagecoach was robbed.”
“Yes.”
He wished now they hadn’t stopped at dusk. As luck would have it, they’d camped less than a mile away. By the morning light he’d spotted in the debris a woman’s shoe and a nightgown that had been mauled by dirty hands. Certain the two Miss Bradleys had been on the coach, he’d left Jon to search through the crates and had maneuvered down the ravine. He’d spotted the yellow coach lying on its side but hadn’t seen the women. Until Miss Bradley had gotten the jump on him, he’d believed the sisters had been abducted by the Carvers or left for dead inside the coach.
Looking at her now, the one he assumed to be the governess, he decided the timing of his arrival had been fortuitous. If he’d arrived in the dark, she’d have shot him. The elder Miss Bradley—the nurse—was struggling to stand.
Tristan stepped around the overturned coach and offered his hand. “Allow me.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
When the elder Miss Bradley reached her feet, the younger Miss Bradley put her arm around her waist to steady to her. Tristan couldn’t address both women as “Miss Bradley.” In his mind he’d think of them as Caroline and Elizabeth. If only one sister was present, he’d address her as Miss Bradley. When they were together, etiquette required him to address the eldest as Miss Bradley and the younger as Miss Caroline. Looking at the women, he easily discerned the difference in their ages and spoke to the nurse. “I presume you’re Miss Elizabeth Bradley?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
He looked at the governess and wished the rules of etiquette weren’t quite so clear. Calling this pretty woman by her given name struck him as too personal, even when he prefaced her name with “Miss.” He studied her with a stern eye. “I’ll address you as Miss Caroline. Is that acceptable?”
A populist gleam twinkled in her wide eyes. “Simply Caroline would do.”
“Hardly.”
“Then whichever you’d prefer, Mr. Smith.”
“It’s Major Smith.”
He’d been out of the army for months, but he hadn’t adjusted to being Mr. Smith. In England he’d have been Lord Tristan, a title that gave him indigestion but sounded normal to his ears. As much as he wanted to deny it, titles and ranks were in his blood.
Maybe that’s why Caroline’s tone struck him as insubordinate. Even more annoying, she reminded him of Louisa. Not only did she have a lively glint in her eyes, but she also had Louisa’s ivory skin and brunette hair. It was an utter mess at the moment, a tumbling pile of curls that had once been meant to impress him. He knew from her letters that she had a suitable education, but he hadn’t expected the keen intelligence he saw in her brown eyes. Or were they green? Hazel, he decided. She had eyes that mirrored her surroundings, and today they’d been muted by the grayish sky. He couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes had once been brighter or if they had faded with life’s trials.
He’d taken a chance hiring a stranger to raise his children, but he had little choice. He hoped Jon would see Caroline’s attributes as plainly as he did. His friend would certainly notice her female curves. Any man would—including Tristan, though the awareness had to remain fleeting.
She stood with her chin slightly raised, silent but somehow conveying her irritation with him. Tristan didn’t like being challenged even with silence, so he paused to examine the overturned coach. He didn’t expect to see the crate of quinine, though he held to a sliver of hope.
The new governess cleared her throat. “Sir?”
“One moment,” he ordered. “Jon will be here shortly. There’s no point in repeating yourself.”
“Who’s Jon?” she asked.
He glared at her. “He’s second in command at The Barracks.”
“A barracks? I thought you owned a ranch.”
“I do,” he said with aplomb. “The Barracks is a nickname. I assure you, Miss Caroline. You’ll live in a perfectly proper house.”
She gave him a doubtful look but said nothing.
Tristan cupped his hand to his mouth and called for Jon. “I’ve found the women. Get down here.”
When he looked back at the two Miss Bradleys, the eldest was giving him a look he could only describe as scolding. Tristan’s own mother had died when he was five, but he’d seen his wife give that look to Freddie. Tristan didn’t like receiving it from an employee.
The new governess reflected the same disapproval. “Major, you should know—”