Intransigence flowed into her expression, then she put her pretty nose in the air and looked ahead. “If you will just set us down at the Barbican Arms, Mr Lester, I’m sure we’ll sort things out.”
Her words conjured a vision of the yard at the Barbican Arms—of the main hall of the inn as it would be at this moment—as Harry had experienced it at such times before. Jam-packed with males, broad-shouldered, elegant tonnish gentlemen, the vast majority of whom he would know by name. He certainly knew them by nature; he could just imagine their smiles when Mrs Babbacombe walked in.
“No.”
The cobbles of the High Street rang beneath the greys’ hooves.
Lucinda turned to stare at him. “What on earth do you mean?”
Harry gritted his teeth. Even with his attention on his horses as he negotiated the press of traffic in the main street of the horse capital of England, he was still aware of the surprised glances thrown their way—and of the lingering, considering looks bent on the woman by his side. Arriving with him, being seen with him, had already focused attention on her.
It was none of his business.
Harry felt his face harden. “Even if the Barbican Arms has rooms to spare—which they will not—it’s not suitable for you to stay in town while a race meeting’s on.”
“I beg your pardon?” After a moment of astonished surprise, Lucinda drew herself up. “Mr Lester—you have most ably rescued us—we owe you our gratitude. However, I am more than capable of organising our accommodation and stay in this town.”
“Gammon.”
“What?”
“You don’t know anything about staying in a town during a race-meet or you wouldn’t be here now.” Lips set in a thin line, Harry shot her an irritated glare. “Devil take it—look around you, woman!”
Lucinda had already noticed the large number of men strolling the narrow pavements. As her gaze swept the scene, she noted that there were many more on horseback and in the sporting carriages of every description thronging the thoroughfare. Gentlemen everywhere. Only gentlemen.
Heather was leaning close, shrinking against her, not used to being stared at and ogled. She raised hazel eyes filled with uncertainty to Lucinda’s face. “Lucinda…?”
Lucinda patted her hand. As she raised her head, she encountered a boldly appraising stare from a gentleman in a high-perch phaeton. Lucinda returned his scrutiny with a frosty glance. “Nevertheless,” she maintained. “If you will set us down at…”
Her words trailed away as she glimpsed, hanging above a broad archway just ahead, a signboard depicting a castle gateway. In that instant, the traffic parted; Harry clicked his reins and the curricle shot forward—straight past the archway.
Lucinda swivelled to peer at the sign as they moved steadily down the street. “That’s it—the Barbican Arms!” She turned to look at Harry. “You’ve passed it.”
Grim-faced, Harry nodded.
Lucinda glared at him. “Stop,” she ordered.
“You can’t stay in town.”
“I can!”
“Over my dead body!” Harry heard his snarl and inwardly groaned. He closed his eyes. What was happening to him? Opening his eyes, he glared at the woman beside him. Her cheeks were becomingly flushed—with temper. A fleeting thought of how she would look flushed with desire shot through his unwilling mind.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face—her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you proposing to kidnap us?” Her voice held the promise of a long and painful death.
The end of the High Street appeared; the traffic thinned. Harry flicked his leader’s ear and the greys surged. As the sound of hooves on cobbles died behind them, he glanced down at her and growled, “Consider it forcible repatriation.”
Chapter Two
“Forcible repatriation?”
Harry shot her a narrow-eyed glare. “You don’t belong in a race-town.”
Lucinda glared back. “I belong wherever I choose to stay, Mr Lester.”
His face set in uncompromising lines, Harry looked back at his team. Lucinda looked ahead, frowning direfully.
“Where are you taking us?” she eventually demanded.