Charlie's hand burrowed deep into her trouser pockets, the smooth chess piece of the onyx queen clutched in her sweating grip, as she contemplated her predicament.

How the devil had things turned to shambles so dashed quickly?

It had been going quite splendidly, her journey. She had arrived at dawn, the Inn coming awake as inhabitants readied to continue their own travels. The post had rambled down the road, a guard blowing the posthorn as the carriage delivered packages and passengers disembarked.

Charlie had dismounted from Sir Rupert in the ensuing chaos, pulling the brim of her hat low over her eyes. Though Charlie's disguise was in place, it was quite another thing entirely for Charlie to overlook that while she may wear the garments of a gentleman, she was distinctly female beneath them. 

What if someone knew her game before the die had been cast?

To her surprise, no one had paid much attention upon her arrival. In fact, she had stood silently in the middle of the yard before she realized that arriving as a lady was an entirely different matter than arriving as a lowborn gentleman. It was her duty to see to her own mount. Stable hands had continued about their business as she brushed down Sir Rupert, choosing a rickety stall at the right end of the stables.

It had been easy to go about seeing to her room, the proprietor caring little as long as her purse was plentiful.

Charlie had been glad for her disguise. It was freeing. She could only imagine the scornful whispers and stares that would have followed if she were dressed as a lady.

The newness of her gender change, however, left her sometime in the middle of the night. She feared that any moment a pounding would be at her door. Her uncle would be standing there with a constable or Lord Simpton...or perhaps, whoever he had met with in his study.

She had worried much of the night, tossing and turning, until the fire had distinguished and she had fallen into a fitful slumber. She had awoken with no one the wiser.

It was all...rather disappointing.

What kind of adventure was this if she got away with nary a misstep?

Charlie had gotten dressed, struggling with the cloth that bound her breasts. She ended up doing a poor job of it, its wrappings unraveling beneath her large shirt. Then she had taken herself to the common room. She had slept through the morning and into the beginnings of evening. She knew she would need to head off soon if she were to continue to make good time on her journey.

Then she had seen him.

The earl of Claymore.

It had shocked her system. Panic, the fear that she had squashed just hours before, returned with a vengeance. What if he recognized her? Would he take her back to her uncle? Was he, perhaps, looking for her on her uncle's behalf? Unlikely, Charlie had known, and yet, her throat had closed, her hands shaking.

The only course of action was to escape as quietly as she could. Or it should have been, if all and sundry hadn't deigned to get in her bloody way.

First had been the lady's skirts she had stepped on as Charlie navigated the scattered tables. She had been maneuvering away from a lady's ostentatious feather-laced cap when it had happened. Mumbling apologies, Charlie had walked backwards into a chair. The man behind her was holding a newspaper,  his black gloves tightening with the disturbance of his evening meal. 

And then the unthinkable. A man had placed his cane on a chair, part of its gleaming wood handle having been out far enough to where Charlie hadn't seen it. She had tripped, falling into a table where a lady's teacup had clattered menacingly in its holder before it gave up its fight. Warmed tea had dumped onto Charlie's one and only cambric shirt.

Devil take it!

There was no way Claymore hadn't turned to investigate the outright pandemonium Charlie had caused. She wasn't surprised when their eyes caught across the crowded room. That same instant connection heated her skin, arching into a tangible line between their bodies.

The singular feeling had frozen her in place.

Claymore had looked away first, rubbing his eyes as if he were seeing something improbable. Perhaps that she had been a woman only one night prior? 

Panic clawing, Charlie had mumbled apologies to the proprietor, picking up pieces of shattered China. Her efforts had been brushed off, and Charlie made her excuses, the breeze on the spring evening calling her to the entryway.

She made the mistake of looking back at the earl once more. Over the tables of patrons, the bustle of staff as they brushed past her placating  the abused patronages, Charlie found him easily. His eyes were on her person, an intimate caress that caused color to flare in her cheeks.

Heavens, but the man was potent.

Charlie turned, tucking her chin as she walked outside, the setting sun streaking yellow and orange and red. They shimmered above the stables, and she quickened her pace, ready to be away from here. 

That was when the second shock of her evening had happened.

Charlie had stood outside the stables, her steps slowing, as she had seen two shadows whispering and moving from within Sir Rupert's stall.

A tall gentleman had his back to her. His navy jacket was too large for his frame, dwarfing his lean limbs. His breeches were stained with the remnants of dust and grime. His boots flapped as he walked, one sole having torn from the rest of his shoe.

He had his hand wrapped around Sir Rupert's lead, pulling until the leather strip creaked. Her horse whinnied, throwing his head to the side as he fought to dislodge the man's grip.

"Hurry the bluidy 'ell up, Marshall! 'Ow long does it take to git the 'orse movin'."

Charlie stepped onto her tiptoes, her breath silent, as she took in the second man. He was shorter than the first. His face was sneering, his mustache thick and black over his upper lip. While his companion's attire was much too big, this man's was much too sparse. His shirt strained against his belly, stained with what she imagined was the remains of his supper. His strides were short as he walked over to the man he had called Marshall, placing his meaty hands on his hips.

Marshall grunted. "I canna move a 'orse if 'e do not wanna be moved, George. I'd like ta see ye try it."

"There ye go again!" George grouched, his voice a rough rasp. He shoved Marshall aside, using his full strength to force Sir Rupert to move. Her horse whinnied, shaking his mane. Charlie felt her anger begin to boil at the mistreatment. "If'n there is a use fer ye, I 'ave yet to see it." He began walking out, murmuring beneath his breath. "What kind of 'orse thief canna even lead a bluidy 'orse out, I ask ye?"

Charlie hunkered deeper into the shadows, placing her back against the outer stable wall. How many gentlemen, she wondered, would seek her harm in one day's time? It was becoming downright common.

She held her breath as their steps drew near. One, plodding and thunking, while the other, a light shuffle.

Charlie breathed deeply, releasing the muscles in her shoulders and arms as she squatted, balanced on the balls of her feet. Sir Rupert swung his dark head towards her as the company moved forward. The silence was unnerving. Whether in expectation of the coming confrontation or the thieves delighting in their successes, Charlie couldn't be sure.

As soon as the men were even with her, Charlie let loose a cry.

"Stop! Thief!" And then she charged the one closest, catching Marshall as her arms wrapped about his legs. His arms pinwheeled, body tipping slowly as if it was uncertain whether he would regain balance or continue his downward plummet. "That's my horse!"

Charlie could only hope someone from the inn would hear her shouts. Her focus faltered, however, when, upon the realization that Charlie had attacked his friend, George had dropped Sir Rupert's reins. The horse was forgotten as she became their target.

Not relinquishing her hold, keeping her wary eyes on the approaching George, Charlie sunk her teeth into the man's leg.

"Bluidy 'ell -" Marshall's leg jerked. His boot struck out, and pain burst behind her eyes. Before she knew it, George had reached her, and her body was forcefully pulled from Marshall's, cast further down the empty stables.

Charlie scrambled from her perch and veered into a an empty stall, her mind planning another escape. She pressed her face to the slats, peering through the rotting wood.

At the same time, her fingers shuffled through the straw, seeking any object. Anything she could use as a weapon. Something metal brushed over her skin, and she grabbed it. Silence had descended at some point, her panic blotting out any other noise.

Footsteps came suddenly from her left, then. The stable door was opened, and a head peered in. Charlie acted. Her arm lifted, a lock grasped in her hand, and then coming down. The man peered in her direction then, but it was too late. The object collided with the man's forehead and his massive body had tumbled at her feet.

Charlie sighed now, glancing at the unconscious man.

It wasn't Marshall, his eyes demanding retribution for her bit. Nor was it George, his burly body tensed to protect his friend.

Charlie almost wished it were.

Instead, for the second time in as many hours, Charlie had attacked the earl of Claymore.

And Charlie had thought that she was having a spot of bad luck.

***

"Lud, now what have I done?"

It seemed fate was destined to bring her and Claymore together.

"It's your own fault, you know," Charlie said, talking to Claymore as if he could hear her. She tsked under her breath. "Did we not discuss the prior evening that a gentleman must declare his good intentions before engaging one who was just attacked?"

When Claymore still lay prone on the floor, his jaw opening in a snore, she shook her head, trying to erase the guilt that seemed to dog her where he was concerned.

If he hadn't have arrived so suddenly, sent her pulse scattering, he wouldn't have ended up in this predicament.

"I refuse to take blame for this one," Charlie whispered. And yet, guilt settled like a sore in her stomach.

The clomping of hooves brought her attention to Sir Rupert who had meandered back after the debacle. Safe, though his halter had been broken. "Well, that was rather not well done of me, was it?" Charlie asked, patting Sir Rupert's neck. Her horse swung its head, dislodging Charlie's touch. He snorted, his black mane gleaming even in the darkness of the stables. "Well, how was I to know we'd be set upon by thieves of all things?"

If Charlie wasn't mistaken, her horse had rolled his eyes as if he were patently unimpressed with her excuses.

"You and me both," Charlie said, wryly.

Was it only an hour ago that she had come down from her rented rooms? Smiling?

Disappointed in her travels?

Charlie glanced to the earl wondering what was to be done now. She couldn't leave a lord, this lord, she corrected, bruised and alone?

And yet, he didn't know that she was...well, a she. If she stayed, Claymore could well have her placed in prison for her actions. But if she left...

Her stomach pitched. Whether he knew who he had saved or not, he had come to her rescue twice in the last twenty four hours. The least she could do was wait until he awakened. Surely Claymore would understand her confusion. She had thought it was the horse thieves in the stables come to finish her off.

She grinned, thinking of how she had handled herself quite well until the end. Her hand came up, probing the abused skin of her cheekbone. Glancing at Claymore's face, she took in his own bruise, one she had given him. His jaw was swollen, a mix of purple and blue colored the wound.

Kneeling down on the straw hewn floor, she cringed in sympathy.

It must hurt like the very devil.

The chess piece dug into her thigh, and Charlie clutched it. She found last evening that alongside her meager allowance, she couldn't leave the queen. It had been hidden away for years inside her drawers, a silent sentintel that she knew was there, always watching. One she tried her best to ignore. It had been a last minute grab, and now, she was grateful for its presence.

Wouldn't father be proud? Charlie thought. Defending herself against Simpton. Revolting against the future her uncle had declared for her. Heavens, she had even protected herself from would-be thieves!

Claymore shifted. His fingers twitching. The flutter of an eyelid.

Charlie stiffened, watching for any further movement. When all remained quiet, Charlie found herself scanning his features. Purely to check for further injuries, she assured herself.

Not because she found him most intriguing.

Her eyes focused on his forehead, the deep gash oozing from where she had hit him. It wasn't long before her attention drifted. The soft tendrils of his hair distracted her, curling at his temples.

Charlie's fingers twitched, and she found her hand coming up. She shifted her fingers through his hair, marveling at its silkiness. There was a bump on the top of his skull. From when he hit the ground?

Another injury she had done him.

Parting his hair, Charlie peered closer at it, gently probing. Claymore groaned, his broad chest rising, his jacket tightening obsencely across his broad shoulders. Something quite different from any other man of her acquaintance. He was big, his nose well-shaped, cheekbones high. He had full lips framed by tanned skin. Claymore's hands lay on the straw, and Charlie pressed her own much smaller hand to his, taking note of the way his fingers stretched over hers. The skin of his hands were rough and callused, no stranger to labor. White lines bisecting his palms, stark against his tanned skin. 

Quite unusual for an earl.

Sighing, Charlie let her gaze roam freely over him. The previous night she had only seen him from a distance, and then, encased in shadow on her balcony. Though he was still in darkness, Charlie could get as close as she dared.

The earl was...oddly beautiful. She didn't expect him to be, but the word fit.

Bending down, Charlie gave into the urge to press her head against his chest. The strength of his bearing, his body, filled Charlie. She gripped the muscled flesh of his arms, her nails digging into the skin that gave little. It caused a pleasant tingle that began in her chest before it spread lower. Charlie pressed her legs together tightly, trying to stifle the ache.

It worsened instead.

Charlie's face flooded with embarrassment, but she didn't lift her head from his chest. Couldn't stop her fingers from testing his strength.

The steady thump of his heart quickened beneath her ear. His breath deepened, lifting her head from his chest. So consumed with sensations, Charlie didn't realize when Claymore moved.

Before she could blink, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She vaguely felt her body turning over, her hands pinned above her head by big hands. She looked up into smoky gray eyes.

"Who the devil are you?"