In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 12

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.