Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  “That’s enough talking about freckles for now,” he said. “It’s time to rest for a minute or two. We’ve a long evening ahead of us. Now, let’s get you warm, hmm?”

  She nodded and dropped her uneaten carrot into the pail. Setting it off to the side, he stood and went about making a bed out of straw.

  A single bed of straw.

  “And where are you going to lie down?” she asked.

  He pointed to the pile he’d just forked.

  “Then, if you take all the straw for yourself, I suppose I’ll have to stay with Victor.”

  At the call of his name, the horse whinnied below in a way that almost sounded like a laugh.

  Asher cast a dark glare down through the floor. “I’m sure he’d enjoy that, but I’m afraid I intend to keep you to myself.”

  “I think not.” She swallowed, rising to her feet. It was one thing to ignore propriety when he was soothing her inside a carriage, or rescuing her from a cooper’s shed, or warming her inside a barn, but . . . this?

  He tossed down the hayfork and chafed his hands together. “Winn, we are both cold. You’re shivering and there’s a bluish tinge to your lips. And, in case you haven’t noticed, the wind howling around us has turned bitter and frostbitten.”

  She clutched the blanket tighter on another shiver and looked over at the . . . bed. A rise of maidenly fears set her heart on a hard patter. After all, she was in her underclothes, while he was practically—blessedly—naked. “Yes, but isn’t this a bit too intimate to be respectable?”

  “In matters of survival, keeping a respectable distance will only harm us both.” To prove it, he came to her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms again, tempting her with warmth.

  She couldn’t stop herself from inching closer. “A scoundrel would say something like that.”

  “True,” he admitted, but soberly. “Though you and I, for lack of a better term, have a business arrangement. I’d hardly be honoring my part of the bargain by proving myself an untrustworthy escort. Thus far, have I made any untoward advances?”

  “Other than believing I was a harlot when we first met?”

  His tempting mouth curled rakishly. “Yes, other than that.”

  She paused as if she were giving it thought, even though she already knew the answer. Sadly, it was, “No, you have not made any advances.”

  “There you have it,” he said with an easy shrug.

  The matter settled, he guided her to the center of the straw and gave special care to bundling the blanket tightly around her. Then, he must have been uncertain of her warmth because he proceeded to put a blockade’s worth of straw between them.

  When he lowered down beside her, he cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. If she didn’t know better, she might think he was nervous. Perhaps he thought she was going to attempt to seduce him?

  So, to ease his mind on the account, she said, “I will refrain from making any untoward advances as well.”

  She only hoped she didn’t have another dream of a statue coming to life and accidentally put her hands all over his bare flesh. Oh, but what a lovely dream that would make! Nevertheless, she turned on her side and faced away from him, using her hair as a cushion against the straw.

  “Besides,” he said, shifting to lie behind her, “this would only be intimate if there were kissing involved. And certainly, with this barrier to keep us apart, you needn’t worry about an eminent seduction.”

  Of course not. Only pretty girls would have need to worry. Girls like her, on the other hand, were taught how to politely decline plum cake, not roguish advances. And she was suddenly worried that she’d have no material for the primer at all.

  “Although . . .” he added with a sardonic edge to his voice, “I suspect you’ll believe I’m a veritable devil if I offer to untie your laces to make you more comfortable.”

  She almost laughed. “My laces are just fine as they are, thank you.”

  “If you change your mind, you need only ask.”

  As Winnifred let her eyes drift closed, she wondered what his response would be if she did.

  Chapter 12

  Asher didn’t want to leave this dream.

  For years, he’d awoken in a cold sweat from the nightmare of being crushed by a mountain of his father’s debts. Slowly suffocating to death.

  But this morning was different. In this dream, he felt the warmth of sunlight on his face while lounging on a bed of sweetly scented strawberries. Better still, there was a soft woman in his arms, her lush bottom pushing back against his ready cock in invitation.

  Helpless against the enticement, he cinched an arm around her waist and rocked forward.

  “Asher,” the woman whispered on a slumberous sigh.

  He buried his face in her hair, breathing in deeply. Such a delectable fragrance. A somewhat familiar fragrance that prodded the edges of his waking mind. It was almost as if he’d had this dream before, but he was nearly sure he hadn’t. This felt too new and unexplored and altogether decadent.

  “Hmm . . . ?” he murmured.

  She yawned, her back arching in a stretch. “You left the hayfork in the straw. Be a dear and move the handle out of the way. I want to sleep for just a bit longer.”

  Asher frowned and pulled her closer, still trying to cling to the dream. Yet reality started to intrude, reminding him of a drenching rain shower, a loft, a pile of straw, and a tooth-chattering heiress . . .

  “That’s not the hayfork, lass.”

  This was Asher’s thought. But it was not his voice.

  Opening his eyes in confusion, he saw sunlight bleeding in through a wall of warped planks, felt a cushion of soft, springy hair beneath his cheek, and heard a scrape and creak of wood behind him.

  He blinked into wakefulness, feeling a sense of being watched prickle the back of his neck. More alert now, he looked over his shoulder toward the ladder, startled to find a man standing over them.

  “This is the hayfork,” the man said, holding the object in question. He wasn’t brandishing it like a weapon, but held it as if it were a long rifle at rest, with the stock on the floorboards and his hand around the neck. And yet, it was clear by the hard look in his lean, weathered face that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it with lethal intent, if need be. “Mind tellin’ me what you’re doin’ in my barn?”

  Fully alert, Asher sat up. Reflexively, he leaned over to shield Winn. Though with his current state of morning arousal, his movements were stiff and stilted. Apparently, the straw he’d so carefully packed between them had dispersed and his loins had been nestled perfectly against the firm globes of her bottom.

  The sun glinting on the sharp tines of the hayfork, however, demanded more of his attention at the moment. “We came in out of the rain. That’s all. We mean you no ill will.”

  “The rain ended yesterday, and well before twilight,” the farmer said.

  Yesterday? That would mean that the light slanting in through the warped slats was the dawn. And they’d lost half a day’s travel.

  “Yet, here you are . . . still,” the farmer continued. “Mayhap you’re thinkin’ to take what isn’t yours.” With a turn of his grizzled head, he pointed his aquiline nose and blunt chin toward the pail of leftover carrot tops.

  Asher felt contrite at once. It was obvious by the tumbledown condition of the barn and the age-worn brown shirt and trousers that this man couldn’t afford much. Not even the loss of a few carrots. “My sincerest apologies. Please know that I intend to make reparations for the—”

  “Whot was that about yesterday?” Winn asked, stirring groggily beside him.

  Rolling over, she splayed her hand across his abdomen, stirring his blood and forcing him to realize that it would have been more prudent if he’d slept with Victor. How in the world was he ever going to forget what it was like to lie beside Winn?

  Her fingertips flexed experimentally. Slowly, she blinked up at him and her eyes curved into crescent moons on a sleepy smile. Then
, abruptly, they went wide and round. A bright blush bloomed on her cheeks as she snatched her hand away.

  “Good morning, sweets. It appears as though we’ve overstayed our welcome”—he paused, motioning with a subtle backward tilt of his head—“in this fine gentleman’s loft.”

  Clutching the blanket to her magnificent, barely contained breasts, she lifted up on an elbow to peek over his shoulder. Then she squeaked and dropped back down.

  With a look of distress, she mouthed, “Did you tell him about Victor?”

  Asher flattened his brow, mouthing back, “I’m not an idiot.”

  Winn rose up again, hitching the blanket higher and lifted her pleading hazel eyes to the farmer. “Kind sir, you have every right to be angry. Though I hope you will be lenient when you’ve heard the very distressing news I must impart. You see, this man—”

  In a flash, the warmth in Asher’s veins turned to ice.

  He realized that now would be the ideal time for her to unleash a sad tale about having been kidnapped from her own wedding. Stolen out of London. Barely escaping from a pair of henchmen out for blood.

  In fact, if she played her cards right, she could garner sympathy enough for this farmer to drive her all the way to her aunt’s and see that Asher was put in irons for the rest of his life.

  It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used him to gain what they wanted.

  “This man,” Winn repeated after she cleared her throat and swallowed, “and I are traveling troubadours who were set upon by thieves. They robbed us of our instruments, along with the satchel of our few worldly belongings and small scraps of food. After our ordeal, we met with a drenching downpour and took shelter in your barn to dry our clothes. I’m afraid time escaped us. And we have taken advantage of your hospitality. Please, sir, if there is a way that we can make amends, let it be known and we will gladly do it.”

  The farmer didn’t answer directly and Asher was temporarily tongue-tied as he gazed down at her.

  Winn’s hair was in complete disarray with yellow shoots of straw sticking out here and there. Sleep crusted her lower lashes and a bit of dried drool sat in the corner of her mouth. And he couldn’t account for it but that overwhelming, foolhardy impulse to kiss her returned.

  She hadn’t betrayed him. It would have been so simple for her to do so.

  He should probably say something to corroborate her story. Instead, he reached out to remove bits of straw from her hair, distracted and feeling a grin warming the corners of his mouth.

  In response, she batted his hand away and slanted him a perturbed glance.

  Clearly, he needed to focus. He turned to the farmer to add more to the story, only to see hard gray eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “A fine tale, to be sure,” the farmer said. “I imagine you’re either a pair of young lovers padding off to Gretna Green, or simply using my property for an illicit encounter. Either way, I’ll not have any part of it. The magistrate will—”

  “We’re married!” Winn announced, wrapping her arms around Asher and holding to him like a shield. Her soft curves molded invitingly against his side. And her actions wreaked havoc on his ability to form a coherent thought.

  The farmer arched a brow. “Married to each other, I trust?”

  “Of course, to each other,” Winn said with an affronted gasp. “Otherwise we would never have . . . Well, not to say that we did engage in any sort of . . . activities last night . . . other than sleeping, of course. I certainly wouldn’t have . . . um . . .” She swatted Asher’s arm. “Crumpet, be a dear and introduce us.”

  Crumpet? Was that supposed to be him?

  Asher felt a grin tug at his mouth. He winked at her, watching as her cheeks flushed the same hue as a strawberry, her freckles the seeds.

  “Yes, indeed, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Strawb”—he stopped and quickly amended with a name that sounded more credible—“Strewsbury. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? The Strewsbury Quartet.”

  Winn stabbed his side with a piece of straw. He could almost hear her unspoken diatribe: Quartet? What possessed you to tell him that we are part of a quartet? He’ll only wonder where the others have gone.

  “Can’t say that I have,” the farmer murmured, eyes still narrowed with marked skepticism. “But if you’re a quartet, then where are the others?”

  “We were separated,” Winn said in a rush.

  “Murdered by highwaymen,” Asher said at the same time.

  Damn, he’d done it again. In trying to recover from a poorly executed fib, he only made matters worse. Though it would help if she would stop being so soft and warm and distracting.

  To keep from being impaled for his error, however, he reached down to strip the dried blade from her fingers.

  “What my husband means,” she began with a laugh, tightening her grip on the straw, “is that we were separated when we were all accosted by the, presumably, murdering sort of highwaymen.”

  The farmer kept his gaze leveled on them and his hand gripping the hayfork. “And just what sort of instruments do you play . . . the ones that were stolen by these supposed highwaymen?”

  Surreptitiously, she yanked one end of their prize toward her. “I sing and I’m also a flutist. My husband plays . . .”

  Her words trailed off as their tug-of-war drew his hand beneath the folds of the blanket. Inadvertently, the knuckle of his thumb dragged lightly along the underside of her corset’s gusseted cups, the space warm and supple and inviting. His better intentions were being tested to their limits.

  “Have you forgotten, Mrs. Strewsbury?” the farmer asked with an edge to his tone, seemingly one lie away from having them put in stocks and irons for trespassing.

  Asher slid his finger over hers as he released his hold on the straw and withdrew. “It’s just that she becomes shy every time she thinks of how nimble her husband’s fingers are . . . on the lute strings.”

  It was ideal that Winn’s cheeks reddened before she tucked her face behind his back. Then she pinched him, for good measure.

  “Haven’t been married long, I see,” the farmer said with amusement in his tone. The small grin that creased his countenance suggested that he believed their story. “My own wife blushed for the whole first year. Ah, but those were the best of days. Hold on to them while you can.”

  She lifted her head, avoiding Asher’s gaze to look at the farmer. “And where is your wife, sir?”

  “Visiting her sister, a couple of hamlets north of here. I’ll be surprising her with a visit today. You see, I just bought that young stallion down there for her. Claims that I never buy her anything.”

  “He’s a fine horse,” Asher said and Winn murmured her agreement, though with a trace of regret that only he would understand. “Your wife is quite fortunate, Mister . . .”

  “Champion.” The farmer grinned proudly, rocking back on the heels of his muddy boots. “Been married seven years now and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t turn inside out for my Gwyneth. And, I imagine, that horse there will pull a smart little gig as well as a cart and a plow.”

  “You’re traveling north?” she asked, a hopeful glimmer in her gaze. “It just so happens that we are, as well.”

  “Seems to me that London is where you’d make your fortune.”

  “And we would, surely, but there are so many of us in town already.”

  Mr. Champion’s narrow-eyed skepticism returned and he grunted. “I suppose I could lend a hand to a pair of down-on-your-luck troubadours. That is . . . if you help me by mucking out the stalls and milking the cow.”

  “Cow?” Winn asked uncertainly. “I didn’t see a cow yesterday.”

  “The neighbor and I share old Betsy between us. I brought her back this morning. Then caught you lot in the loft, and an empty pail of carrots.”

  “I would absolutely love to milk your cow,” she said with a nervous smile. “It will bring back all the days of my childhood . . . on my parents’ tenant farm.”

  The farmer’s mouth remained st
ern. “And what about you, lad?”

  Asher didn’t miss the ultimatum. “I can muck a stall better than it’s been mucked before, sir.”

  With that, the fate of their next few hours was sealed. And would, he trusted, hold temptation at bay for a while longer.

  * * *

  Winnifred felt the glare of a pair of big brown eyes on her.

  If the puffed grunt and flare of her nostrils was any indication, Betsy was getting irritated. And what, precisely, would a large milk cow do when being squeezed for minutes on end by a person who obviously knew nothing about milking? Would she retaliate by squashing said person?

  “Nice Betsy,” Winn said with another skittish clasp. “Lovely Betsy. I imagine with your buttery brown coat and not a single freckle, you’ve turned quite a few heads from the gentlemen cows—or bulls, rather.”

  Betsy turned her attention back to the bundle of hay in front of her and Winn felt as if she’d been given a stay of execution.

  She’d already wasted too much time in her futile efforts. When Asher had asked her earlier if she even knew how to milk a cow, she’d confidently—and perhaps stubbornly—told him that she did.

  After all, he’d been wearing a disbelieving smirk at the time. And, in her own defense, she wanted to milk the cow. Part of her—and she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason—needed to prove to Asher that she was more than an heiress. More than a person whose daily existence was recorded in her father’s accounting ledger.

  Unfortunately, she and Betsy were getting nowhere. And Winn knew that she needed to hurry along or they wouldn’t be able to arrive at her aunt’s in time, and Asher would miss his grand opportunity.

  Swallowing her pride, she strolled over to the stall where Asher was working. The instant she saw him, however, she forgot what she was going to ask him.

  He was shirtless still. And even more glorious than before—if such a thing were possible. His bare back glistened with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing sinuously as he plied the hayfork, in and over. In and over.