A Groom of Her Own (Scandalous Affairs Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  Why, even Poppy, whom he’d admired for being a free spirit and more American than British, had defended her husband’s military work in Ireland.

  “I never thought I’d hear an English lady talk… like that,” he finally brought himself to say.

  “Like what?” Claire flashed a wan smile. “Treasonously?”

  “Treason here, mayhap.” He winked. “It isn’t treason in America, sweetheart. There, a person is free to speak his mind about the unjust and pretty much anything else one wants to condemn.”

  Her expression grew contemplative. “I… never imagined it was really that way anywhere. Where people could speak ill of one’s government and do so without being called traitorous.”

  “Oh, people don’t like it in America. We’ve even had presidents who tried to quash it.” He gave a grin of his own. “But Americans have a stubborn way about them. Bold. Unapologetic. Kind of like how you were speaking just now.”

  “I’m not bold,” she said, a trace of bitterness in her softly spoken words. With a sigh, she pushed her nearly untouched plate away until the wood dish clicked against his. “I trust you’ve never heard of that level of evil before.”

  She’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

  But then, he’d taken her for a pampered princess who expected the world was her due. They’d both been wrong where each other was concerned.

  “I’ve lived something like it.”

  It was harder to say who was more stunned by that quiet admission.

  And yet, once out, he couldn’t call it back. And more strangely? He didn’t really want to.

  “What?” Claire ventured hesitantly.

  Picking up the cup of miserable coffee the innkeeper had brewed, Caleb took a sip. He grimaced, that twist of his lips more about the past that was always with him than the foul-tasting black coffee. “I found myself impressed by…” One of your… Something, however, called him back from leveling that descriptor on her, this woman who’d spoken with the same disdain as that which he carried. “A British warship. I was headed to meet my brother when I was nabbed from the streets.”

  She gasped, and the cup she’d absently dangled in her fingertips clattered to the table. “You were kidnapped.”

  “Well, I wasn’t really a kid,” he said dryly. “I was twenty. Strong.” His smile dipped. “They were stronger,” he said, his gaze fixing on a point beyond Claire’s head, to the fire crackling in the hearth.

  Those flames transported him back to the day he’d been sprung free of that prison. The battle at sea that had left him screaming himself hoarse in the forgotten belly of the ship. Smoke so thick it had clogged his lungs. He’d been so certain he was going to perish alongside the other prisoners who’d been locked up there to die.

  Pleeeeease. We are herrre… Let us ouuuuut…

  A hand, satiny soft and delicate as a butterfly’s caress, covered his own, and Caleb jolted. Her touch was a lifeline that pulled him back from the abyss of memories that had haunted him since that night.

  Caleb stared at her fingers, paint-stained as his own. Marred with charcoal. He cleared his throat. “It’s fine,” he said quickly.

  “It isn’t. And you don’t need to say it for my benefit, Caleb. What was done to you was a sin as evil as the one my family is responsible for on the Earl of Maxwell.”

  A sin as evil as the one my family is responsible for…

  He puzzled his brow. “You do know you’re not at fault because of your parents’ actions or decisions?”

  Except—Caleb trailed his gaze over those features that were her tell—she didn’t know as much.

  He saw the answer in her eyes before she even spoke. “It is my blood. Society holds me at fault. As they should.”

  Gripping the underside of his chair, he dragged his seat closer until their knees touched under the table. “How old were you?”

  She hesitated. “It doesn’t matt—”

  “Don’t be so stubborn, Claire,” Caleb cut her off. “How old?”

  The lady’s pert, perfectly formed nose scrunched up. “I was three or so.”

  “And you somehow think you had any control over their decisions? Or their actions? You didn’t do what they did.” He drove a finger against the top of the scarred oak table. “Your mother and father were the ones who acted in evil.”

  Claire leaned in. “Do you intend to tell me, Caleb, that you haven’t despised the entire British people for what you endured?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped. For, Claire… wasn’t wrong. He’d done precisely that which she suggested. He hated the British, and it was hard—nigh impossible—to separate out what had been done to him at the hands of their military and a few among the people who lived in this cold, rainy country. “That’s fair enough. You’re right. It’s taken me some time to see that not all English are bad.”

  Claire drifted closer, dropping her elbows precisely as his were so they were matched in the positioning of their bodies. “And what made you see it?” she asked softly.

  “Poppy.”

  Claire didn’t blink for several moments, and then she cocked her head. “Poppy,” she echoed, her voice peculiarly vacant.

  “I had it in my mind how all you people were. But she was opinionated. And not proper and very… American in her ways.”

  “I… see.” Claire let her arms fall and rested her hands upon her lap. “Poppy has that powerful effect on people, doesn’t she?”

  In some ways, yes. In other ways, he and Poppy had been entirely British, not diving at all deeply into each other’s pain. Letting the other find a way to deal. “I didn’t have the realization until you just pointed it out, Claire. That I’ve… softened in some of the views, the harsher, more blanket ones I carried toward all the British.” There’d been the men and children who’d helped him, an outsider in their country, with his art exhibits. “And so I can tell you, in truth, you don’t have to blame yourself for what your family did. You can only live your life and be the person you want to be.”

  They locked gazes.

  “Thank you,” she said in soft tones. “Now you know. That is one of the reasons I…” Her response fell away, and Caleb probed her with his gaze, searching for whatever she’d been about to say.

  Claire coughed into her fist. “That is one of the reasons I fell in love with the… man I did,” she substituted. “Because he is an honorable man.”

  An honorable man.

  Before, he’d have argued until he drew his dying breath that there wasn’t such a thing, until this conversation with Claire had opened his eyes to how unfairly he’d judged an entire population.

  Now, however, he was forced to think about… the man she spoke of.

  A proper, fine lord. Some insidious emotion slithered like a serpent around his belly, something that felt dangerously like… jealousy.

  Yeah, Caleb had made some concessions where the British were concerned. Claire, however, could sing the bastard’s praises until the cows came home, but Caleb wasn’t going to be filing that fellow in the ranks of “one of the good” anytime soon. Not when the man had left her to make a long journey without any protection.

  “You don’t want to marry this guy,” he said gruffly.

  Fire blazed to life in her eyes, a rebellious glimmer that set those blue depths a-sparkle. “I said I did.”

  She was spoiling for a fight. As someone who’d perfected that evasive way, he recognized it all too well. And any day before they’d met up by chance here at the inn, he’d have been all too happy to give her that which she craved. Because it was easier going head-to-head with a person and being at odds than letting them in and close. “Yeah, you did, Claire. Several times now,” he said with all the gentleness he could manage.

  The fight seemed to go out of her, and he hated this deflated version of her always-spirited self.

  “Either way, it is too late. It will soon be learned that I’ve run off.” And with nothing more than a note left to assure her family she was
well and a promise to write again when she was settled. The discovery of her whereabouts had been delayed by her brother, mother, and Poppy’s journey to help Christina and convince her to return to London with them. But soon they would learn…along with the rest of the world. Faye wouldn’t be able to hold the servants off from sending for Tristan. “As I said, secrets aren’t secrets forever. If I returned, unwed, someone would eventually find out, and there’d be shame brought upon my family.” She bit her lower lip. “More of it, that is. That is something I cannot inflict upon them.

  “I don’t much like your brother, and I don’t really know your sisters, but do you really believe they’d want you to worry about all that, Claire?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean that I should accept that for them.” She spoke with an air of finality, indicating she’d struck the death knell on any more of this conversation.

  The matter was settled.

  She was on her way to the wedding.

  Claire removed the napkin from her lap and neatly folded it, laying the stained scrap atop her unfinished food. “I have… enjoyed our time together.”

  And… he had, too. More than he’d have ever thought possible. Even so, with all the earth-shaking realizations he’d been brought to here, he couldn’t, however, bring himself to admit that intimate truth.

  Claire glanced about, her features a study in perplexity. “Do you have the time?”

  He pulled out his watch fob, the gift his father had given him when he’d left for London. “Ten past six.”

  She frowned. “The driver and other riders are usually arisen by this time. If you’ll excuse me?” Claire climbed to her feet. “I should see to where he is.”

  Oh, hell. Yes, well, there was that matter. One sure to shatter this fragile truce they’d struck. “About that, Claire,” he called, freezing the dark-haired imp before she could seek out the innkeeper.

  She turned slowly back, her eyes brimming with suspicion. “What?” she asked slowly.

  “The bad news or the good news?”

  Her brows dipped. “The former.”

  “Your driver and his riders may have already left.”

  Claire gasped and whipped her gaze about the taproom, as if believing he fed her some jest and any moment the person in question would appear. When she returned her focus on him, she narrowed her eyes. “And you happen to know this because…?”

  “Because I encouraged him to get going.” He’d not point out that the fellow had intended to leave Claire anyway, because of his feud with the lady the day before.

  “You… you…” Claire sputtered before finally finding her voice. “And the good news, Mr. Gray?”

  Caleb grinned. “You have snagged me as your companion for the remainder of the way.”

  The lady’s eyes flared.

  As Claire launched into a healthy stream of cursing, Caleb lifted his coffee in salute.

  Chapter 11

  The good news, he’d said.

  Claire streaked a furious path back and forth over the snow-covered drive of the Rotted Rooster.

  Snagged him as a companion, had she?

  Why, she’d sooner hang him as a companion.

  And here they’d been getting on so well. Too well. History should have taught her better. History should have proven that where she and Caleb were concerned, there was ultimately some manner of tension or disagreement. But this? Ohhh, this was unforgivable.

  He’d stolen her decision from her.

  Then he’d had the gall to suggest she should be happy about it. Oh, the gumption.

  Claire picked up her pace, her breath stirring little clouds of white in the cold, a cold she was incapable of feeling. Fury, red and hot, lent her body an extra heat. She reached the end of the drive and turned quickly.

  Her gaze snagged upon him, and she abruptly stopped. Resting as he was, with a shoulder against the stone structure of the Rotted Rooster; he had one leg propped up behind him and his arms folded at his chest. He was a study of boredom and casualness, and her fury only spiked.

  “You done?” he called down the drive.

  Was she… Was she…

  Claire let loose a quiet scream that startled several birds from the tree behind her, fluttering a bevy of feathers down about her.

  Caleb made a tsking sound. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s not the birds’ fault.”

  “I’m not angry at the birds,” she shouted, and even with the ten paces between them, she spied the wide grin on his entirely too-amused face. Stop! She knew what he was doing. This time, she bit her tongue from giving him any further satisfaction.

  “Are you done?” he asked again.

  “Does it look like I’m done?”

  “Actually, it doesn’t, which is why I’m asking.” He consulted his timepiece for a fifth time since she’d stormed out of the inn in search of the mail coach, hoping… believing he’d been wrong. But he hadn’t been. He’d followed close after her and let her to that discovery. “I’ve got a place to be.”

  He had a place to be? He had a place to be? She was on her way to her wedding, set to begin a new life, and he, interfering lout that he was, spoke to her about his existing engagement?

  Ohh, this was rich.

  Her already mightily frayed patience snapped.

  Collecting the hems of her cloak and dress, Claire stomped back down the path, grinding snow and gravel up under her boots as she went. As she approached, Caleb straightened. He touched the brim of his cap.

  “Fabulous. You’re done—oomph.”

  He grunted as she stuck a finger in his chest, and yet—Claire winced—she was entirely certain the hard, immobile wall of muscle had hurt her more than he’d been hurt by the small digit.

  “You listen, and you listen here, Mr. Gray. I don’t give a jot about you or your business.”

  He frowned. “Now, that’s just rude, love.”

  Love?

  No one would ever confuse his slow, sarcastic drawl for any kind of endearment.

  A furious heat flared on her face. “I am not your love.”

  “No, that’s right. You’ve got your fine, honorable English fellow who couldn’t be bothered to collect you.”

  Claire pounced. “He trusts in my abilities and capabilities. He doesn’t seek to control me.” Far from it, which was why she’d agreed to the match in the first place… because she’d have freedom in her life. “He knows I am entirely capable of making my way from London without incident.”

  Caleb’s broad shoulders shook. “Is that what you called all your run-ins back there?” He jerked his chin at the Rotted Rooster.

  “I was handling it. Just as I handled it at my previous stop. But, nooooo”—Claire held her palms aloft and waved them at him—“you believe me some weak, incapable, pitiable miss who needs some big strong man to care for me.”

  The right corner of his hard mouth quirked. “Big strong man, am I?”

  Claire opened her mouth and closed it. She opened it again. Fury fell like a curtain over her vision, and when it cleared, and that smug grin was still firmly affixed to his face, she shrieked. Throwing her arms up, she spun on her heel and marched off.

  There came the crunch of gravel.

  Caleb slid himself in front of her, blocking her forward path.

  Claire skidded to a halt, and Caleb immediately shot a hand out, catching her firmly but gently by the arm to steady her. And even with the muslin a fabric barrier between them, her body still went warm under that masterful hold. “What?” she gritted between her teeth, as annoyed with his high-handedness as she was with herself for her awareness of him.

  “I don’t think you’re pitiable, Claire,” he said quietly, with the same solemnity that had been present during their earlier exchanges at the Rotted Rooster. The gaze he moved over her face was as real as a physical touch, and her belly quickened. “Never that.”

  “You don’t pity me,” she murmured. “But you do see me as weak and incapable.” With a sound of disgust, she wrenc
hed her arm away from him and stomped off once more. She angled a look over her shoulder. “Good day, Mr. Gray. If you’re worried about being late for your meeting, I suggest you be on your way.”

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called, “I didn’t say ‘weak and incapable.’ Those were your words, sweetheart.”

  Claire lengthened her stride, needing to put as much distance as possible between her and the interfering man behind her.

  “Where are you going, Claire?” he yelled after her.

  “Away from you!” she rejoined, not deigning to glance his way. Because she couldn’t. And here she’d been feeling bonded with him. To him.

  She would never learn where Caleb was concerned.

  “I did it for you, Claire, and I did it for Poppy.”

  Claire reached the end of the drive that spilled out onto an old Roman road. Holding a hand above her brow, she peered off into the vast, open distance. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but gray skies and a landscape painted white by winter’s brush. There was no hint of the mail coach. Or any coach. There were no riders.

  She was… alone until the next mail coach arrived. And as this wasn’t an official posting house, there was nothing to say it would stop here, and—

  Kicking the snow off a large tree stump, Claire sank onto the makeshift bench. With her skirts fanning about her, she drew her knees close to her chest.

  Perhaps it is a sign. Perhaps you aren’t supposed to go and marry a man you’ve never met.

  For when she did, she’d abandon all possibility of what Tristan and Poppy shared.

  She wrestled back the niggling voice in her mind, the one attempting to use reason to talk her out of a commitment she’d made.

  She’d come to terms with her fate… and her future.

  Of course, being stranded at that miserable inn had nothing to do with any signs from the universe and everything do with him.

  Claire felt him before she heard him.

  This time, however, he didn’t rush to put himself before her. He lingered, allowing her the time she wanted, nay, needed.