‘Let her go!’
Hearing that hard, cold command, the group fell silent, turning to look at the newcomer who had approached unnoticed. Claire swallowed hard, her heart pounding even as her gaze drank in every detail of her rescuer’s appearance. An arresting figure, he was a head taller than any present. His dress proclaimed the working man, but there the similarity ended: if anything his upright bearing smacked more of a military background. The brown serge coat had seen better days but it was clean and neat and covered powerful shoulders; waistcoat, breeches and boots adorned a lean, athletic figure that had not an ounce of fat on it. Dark hair was visible from beneath a low-crowned felt hat. However, it was the face that really held attention, with its strong bone structure and slightly aquiline nose, the chiselled, clean-shaven lines accentuated by a narrow scar that ran down the left side from cheek to jaw. The sculpted mouth was set in a hard, uncompromising line, as uncompromising as the expression in the grey eyes.
For a moment or two there was silence, but the hold on Claire’s arm slackened. With pounding heart she glanced up at the newcomer, but he wasn’t looking at her. The hawk-like gaze was fixed on her persecutor. The latter sneered.
‘This is none of your business, Eden.’
‘Then I’ll make it my business, Stone.’ The quiet voice had the same Yorkshire burr as the others, but it also held an inflexion of steel.
‘We were just having a little fun, that’s all.’
‘The lady doesn’t seem to share your idea of amusement.’
‘What’s it to you?’
The reply was a large clenched fist that connected with Stone’s jaw. The force of the blow pitched him backwards and sent him sprawling, stunned, in the mud of the alley. Before he could stir, one of his companions threw a punch at Eden. He blocked it and brought his knee up hard into his attacker’s groin. The man doubled over in agony. As he staggered away a third stepped in. Eden ducked under the swinging fist and landed his opponent a savage upper cut that lifted him off his feet and flung him backwards to lie in the mud with Stone. Seeing the fate of their fellows, the remaining two men hesitated, then backed away. Eden threw them one contemptuous glance and then looked at Claire.
‘Are you hurt, miss?’
‘No. I… I’m all right,’ she replied, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake.
‘Good. Then I’ll set you on your way.’
He looked round at the others as though daring them to challenge the words, but no one did. Instead they avoided his eye and moved aside. Seeing her bag lying nearby, Eden picked it up. As he did so, Stone came to, propping himself groggily on one elbow, his other hand massaging the lump on his jaw. Blood trickled from a split lip.
‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it!’
If the other was in any way perturbed by the threat he gave no sign of it save that the glint in the grey eyes grew a shade harder.
‘I’ll look forward to that, Stone.’
Then, placing a firm but gentle hand under her elbow, he led Claire away from the scene.
For a few moments they walked in silence and she was grateful for the respite because it allowed her time to regain her self-control. She was trembling now with reaction and the knowledge of how narrow her escape had been. Moreover she was ashamed to the depths of her soul to have been seen in such a situation. Respectable young women did not travel unaccompanied and would never place themselves in circumstances where they might attract the attentions of such brutes as those. Her face reddened. What must he think?
She stole a glance at her protector, but the handsome face gave nothing away. Nor did he venture a comment of any kind. Instead they walked on in silence until they were well clear of the tavern, she all the while aware of the warmth of his hand beneath her elbow. It was a gesture that was both comforting and disturbing at once. Yet the nearness of this man was not threatening as those others had been. How much she owed him. She stole another look at his face.
‘Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for what you did back there.’
The grey eyes regarded her steadily a moment.
‘I beg you will not regard it, madam.’
Claire knew a moment’s surprise for the Yorkshire burr had disappeared to be replaced with the pure modulated diction associated with a very different social rank. However, fearing to seem rude, she did not remark on it.
‘Who were those men?’ she asked then.
‘Scum. They needn’t concern you further.’ He paused. ‘May I ask where you’re going?’
‘To Helmshaw.’
‘Helmshaw. That’s a fair walk from here.’
‘Yes, I believe so, but the public coach doesn’t go there.’
‘You came on the coach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘As you see.’
‘You have family in Helmshaw perhaps?’
‘A friend.’
‘But your friend is not expecting you.’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Not at all, I’d say, or you would have been met at the coach.’
Not knowing what to say, Claire remained silent. A few moments later they reached the end of the street. There he paused, looking down at her.
‘Yonder lies the road to Helmshaw. I’d walk along with you, but I’ve important business requiring my attention here. However, I think you’ll not be troubled again.’
She managed a tremulous smile. ‘I’m sure I shan’t be. You’ve been most kind, sir.’
‘You’re welcome, Miss, er…’
‘Claire Davenport.’
He took the offered hand and bowed. For one brief moment she felt the warmth of his touch through her glove. Then he relinquished his hold.
‘Farewell, Miss Davenport.’
‘Farewell, Mr Eden. And thank you again.’
He handed her the valise and touched his hand to his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Feeling strangely bereft, she watched the tall departing figure with a rueful smile. In all likelihood they would never meet again, though she knew she would never forget him. With a sigh she turned and continued on her way.
As the man Eden had predicted she met with no more trouble on the road, but half an hour later it came on to rain, a thundery summer shower. The open roadway offered no shelter and in a very short time she was soaked through. It was with real relief that she saw the first houses on the edge of the village. An enquiry of a passing carter directed her to a grey stone house set back from the road in a pleasant garden. Claire paused by the gate, feeling her stomach knot in sudden apprehension. What if Miss Greystoke had moved on? It had been seven years after all. What would she do then? Where would she go? Taking a deep breath, she walked up the paved pathway to the front door and rang the bell. A maidservant answered. On seeing Claire’s bedraggled and muddied appearance she eyed her askance.
‘The doctor’s not at home,’ she said.
Shivering a little now, Claire stood her ground.
‘It is Miss Greystoke I seek, not the doctor.’
Before the girl could answer another voice spoke behind her.
‘Who is it, Eliza?’
Claire’s heart beat painfully hard. The woman’s elegant lavender-coloured gown was different, but everything else was familiar from the light brown hair