With a groan, Martin shortened the reins. ‘I’ll have to get down and find some stones. Can you hold them, do you think?’
A mischievous grin lit Helen’s face. ‘I was under the impression that no out-and-outer would ever entrust his cattle to a mere woman.’
Martin grimaced. ‘Touché. I wouldn’t—except that I wouldn’t give a farthing for their behaviour if I simply tied the reins to the rail. The devils would sense the absence of a master and they’d be off as soon as the stones were in place.’ He glanced down into the large green eyes. ‘All they need is a light touch on the reins for reassurance—and you seem to know your way about horses.’
Helen reached for the reins. ‘I do. But if you spook them by throwing stones, I’ll drive off and leave you to your fate. So be warned!’
Martin laughed at her melodramatic tone and relinquished the reins. He stood carefully and removed his coat, placing it over the seat before jumping down from the carriage. The water covered his ankles. With an inward sigh for his gleaming Hessians, he splashed to the bank and cast about for stones to place beneath and before the wheels.
Helen watched, the reins held gently in both hands. Every now and then, she felt a tug as the horses lived up to their owner’s expectations and tested their freedom. They were clearly unhappy to be standing stock-still, half in and half out of the stream, rather than stretching their legs along the highway. As the minutes ticked by, Helen became infected with their impatience. Martin had to go further and further afield to find stones to lay in the mud before the wheels. She had no idea of the time, but thought it close to noon. How far were they from London?
Then her reckless self emerged and shouldered aside her worries. This was adventure and in adventure important things took care of themselves. Things would turn out all right; she need not concern herself—fate was in charge.
Determinedly light-hearted, she started to hum, then, as Martin had disappeared upstream, lifted her voice in the refrain from an old country air.
Martin heard the lilting melody as he returned with yet more rocks. He paused for a moment, out of sight, and let her gentle contralto wash over him, waves of song lapping his consciousness. The sound was close to a caress. With a chuckle, Martin moved forward. A siren’s song, no less.
She checked when she saw him, but when he raised one brow in question she raised one back and, tilting her chin, resumed her song.
With a broad smile, Martin settled the stones he carried to best effect and headed back for more. In truth, he found fair Juno’s fortitude somewhat remarkable, he who would have sworn he knew all there was to know of women. But this woman had not whined at the delay, nor raised peevish quibbles about the consequences. Consequences neither he nor she could do anything to avoid. Had she realised yet?
An interesting question. Yet, he reflected, fair Juno was no one’s fool.
Three more trips and there were enough rocks to attempt to break free of the cloying mud. Hands on hips, Martin stood by the side of the carriage and looked up at his assistant. ‘I’ll have to push the carriage from behind. Do you think you can hold them, once they gain the bank?’
A look of supercilious condescension was bestowed upon him. ‘Of course,’ Helen said, then deserted the high ground to ask, ‘Do you think they’ll bolt?’
With a half-smile, Martin shook his head. ‘Not if you keep the reins short.’ He moved to the back of the curricle, praying that that was so. ‘When I say so, give ’em the office.’
On her mettle, Helen obediently waited for his call before clicking the reins. The horses heaved, the curricle slowly edged forward. Then the wheels gained firm purchase and the carriage abruptly left the water. The horses pulled hard. Suppressing her sudden fear, stirred to life by the strength of the great beasts sensed through the reins, she determinedly hauled back, struggling to hold them. She applied the brake to lock the wheels, and the carriage skidded slightly.
Then Martin was beside her, taking the reins from her suddenly weak fingers.
‘Good girl!’
The approval in his voice warmed her; the glow in his eyes raised her temperature even more. To her annoyance, Helen felt herself blushing. An odd sensation of weakness, not quite faintness but surely an allied affliction, bloomed within. She shifted along the seat, making room for him, supremely conscious of the large body when it settled once more by her side.
To her relief, Martin seemed content to resume their journey without further delay, leaving her to the task of shackling her wayward thoughts. Never before had they been so astray. And, if she was any judge at all of the matter, Martin Willesden was the type of man who could sense a wayward feminine thought at ten paces. Her present safety might be ensured, but she did not need to lay snares for her future.
Having learned his lesson somewhat belatedly, Martin devoted as much of his attention as he could summon to driving. The London road was gained without further mishap. Soon, they were bowling along at a spanking pace. Even so, it was past two o’clock when, accepting the inevitable, Martin checked and turned into the yard of the Frog and Duck at Wincanton.
He turned to smile into Juno’s questioning eyes. ‘Lunch. I’m famished, even if, being a fashionable woman, you are not.’
Helen’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I’m not that fashionable.’
Martin laughed and jumped down. He reached up to lift fair Juno to the ground, noting her slight hesitation before, without fuss, she drew nearer and let him grasp her waist.
Flustered again but determined not to show it, Helen accepted Martin’s proffered arm. He led her up the steps to the inn door, then stood aside to allow her to enter. As she did so, the head groom, having laid eyes on the horses his ostlers had taken in charge, came hurrying to ask Martin’s orders.
Alone, Helen crossed the threshold, thankful for the cool dimness within. She was feeling unduly warm. The door gave directly on to the taproom, a large chamber, low-ceilinged and cosy with a huge fireplace at one end. Alerted by the noise outside, the landlord was coming forward from his domain on the other side of the room. Seeing her, he stopped. And stared. Helen became aware that all the other occupants of the tap, six in all and all male, were likewise transfixed. Then, to her discomfort, a leering grin suffused the landlord’s face. Faint echoes appeared on his patrons’ faces, too.
Simultaneously realising what a sight she must present, and the likely conclusion the landlord had drawn, Helen drew herself up, ready to defend her status.
There was no need. Martin came through the door and stopped by her side. One comprehensive glance was all it took for him to grasp the conclusion the inhabitants of the Frog and Duck had jumped to. He scowled at the landlord. ‘A private parlour, host, where my wife can be at ease.’
The growled command wiped the leer from the landlord’s face so fast, he had no expression ready to cover the ensuing blankness.
Helen was not sure whether to laugh or gasp. Wife? In the end, she covered her left hand with her right and, tipping up her chin, looked down her nose at the landlord, a feat assisted by the fact that she was taller than he. The man shrank as obsequiousness took hold.
‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly, m’lord. If madam would step this way?’
Bowing every two paces, he led them to a neat little parlour. While Martin gave orders for a substantial meal, Helen sank, with a little sigh of thankfulness, into a well-padded armchair by the hearth, carefully avoiding the mirror above the mantelpiece. She had little real idea how bad her state was, but could not imagine knowing would help.
Martin heard her sigh. He glanced at her, then said to the landlord, ‘We had an accident with our chaise. Our servants are following behind, with our luggage. Perhaps,’ he continued, raising his voice and turning to address a weary Juno, ‘you’d like to refresh yourself above stairs, my dear?’
Helen blinked, then readily agreed. Led to a small chamber and supplied with warm water, she washed the dust of the road from her face and hands, then steeled herself to exam
ine the damage her adventures had wrought in her appearance. It was not as bad as she had feared. Her eyes were sparkling clear and the wind had whipped colour into her cheeks. Clearly, driving about the countryside with Martin Willesden agreed with her constitution. In the end, she undid her hair and reformed the mass of curls into a simpler knot. Her dress, the apricot silk marred by a host of creases, was beyond her ability to change. Other than shaking and straightening her skirts, there was little else she could do.
Returning to the parlour, she found their repast laid out upon the table. Martin rose with a smile and held a chair for her.
‘Wine?’
At her nod, he filled her glass. Then, without more ado, they applied themselves to the task of demolishing the food before them.
Finally satisfied, Martin sat back in his chair and put aside contemplation of their problems the better to savour his wine while quietly studying fair Juno, absorbed in peeling a plum. His eyes slid over her generous curves— generous, ample—such words came readily to mind. Along with luscious, ripe and other, less acceptable terms. Martin hid a smile behind his goblet. All in all, he had no fault to find in the arrangement of fair Juno’s dispositions.
‘We won’t reach London tonight, will we?’
The question drew Martin’s gaze to her lips, full and richly curved and presently stained with plum juice. A driving urge to taste them seared through him. Abruptly, he refocused his mind on their problem. He raised his eyes to Juno’s, troubled green and concerned. He smiled reassuringly. ‘No.’
Helen felt justified in ignoring the smile. ‘No’, he said, and smiled. Did he have any idea of the panic she was holding at bay by dint of sheer determination?
Apparently, he did, for he continued, more seriously, ‘Getting stuck in that ford has delayed us too much. However, I draw the line at driving my horses through the night, not that that would avail us, for I can’t see arriving in London at dawn to be much improvement over our current state.’
Helen frowned, forced to acknowledge the truth of that remark. He would not be able to hire a chaise for her if they passed by Hounslow in the middle of the night.
‘And, before you suggest it, I refuse to be a party to any scheme to hire a chaise for you to travel alone through the night.’
Helen’s frown deepened. She opened her mouth to argue.
‘Even with outriders.’
Helen shut her mouth and glared. But his tone and the set of his jaw warned her that no argument would shift him. And, in truth, she had no wish to spend the night jolting over the roads, a prey to fears of highwaymen and worse. ‘What, then?’ she asked in her most reasonable tone.
She was rewarded with a brilliant smile which quite took her breath away. Luckily, he did not expect her to speak.
‘I had wondered,’ Martin began diffidently, unsure how his plan would be received, ‘if we could find an inn where neither of us is known, to put up in for the night.’
Helen considered the suggestion. She could see no alternative. Raising her napkin to wipe her lips, she raised her eyes to his. ‘How will we explain our disreputable state— and our lack of servants and luggage?’
The instant she asked the question, she knew the answer. Deliciously wicked, but, she reasoned, it was all part of her adventure and thus could be viewed with a lenient eye.
Pleased by her tacit acceptance of the only viable plan he had, Martin relaxed. ‘We can tell the same story I edified our host with—that we’ve had an accident and our retainers are following behind with the luggage.’
Still a little nervous of the idea, Helen nodded. Did he intend to claim they were wed?
‘Which reminds me,’ said Martin, sliding the gold signet from his right hand. ‘You had better wear this for the duration.’ He held the heavy ring out and dropped it into her palm.
Helen studied the ring, still warm from his hand. Obviously, they were to appear married. She slipped it on to the third finger of her left hand. To her surprise, its weight, in that remembered place, did not evoke the expected horror. Instead, it was strangely reassuring, a source of strength, a pledge of protection.
‘Very well,’ she said. She drew a deep breath and purposefully added, ‘But we’ll have to have separate rooms.’ Determined to be clear on that point, she raised her eyes to his darkly handsome face and beheld a haughty expression.
‘Naturally,’ returned Martin repressively. It would undoubtedly be safer that way. Aside from anything else, he would need to get some sleep. He studied Juno’s fair countenance and the need to know her real name grew. Given that they were to masquerade cloaked in wedded bliss, he felt that their increasing intimacy justified a request for enlightenment. ‘I rather think, my dear, that, given our new relationship, it might be appropriate if I knew your name.’
Engrossed in fantasies revolving around their new relationship, Helen gave a start. ‘Oh.’ She thought once more of the matter, inwardly acknowledging her reluctance and her reasons for it. Eyeing the handsome face, the strangely compelling eyes fixed on hers, she admitted to an urge to tell him, to confide in a man so transparently at ease in her world. But hard on the heels of that feeling came a premonition of how he would look when he heard her name. He would know of her husband; they would likely have met. What would he feel—pity? Revulsion, albeit carefully cloaked? Doing anything to damage the closeness she sensed between them was repugnant.
Letting her gaze fall, she picked up her napkin, creasing the folds between her fingers. ‘I…really…’ Her words trailed away. How to explain what she felt?
Martin smiled a little crookedly. He would have liked her to confide in him but the point was not worth disturbing her over. ‘You really feel you shouldn’t?’
Helen threw him a grateful look. ‘It’s just that the adventure seems more…complete—and,’ she added, determined at least to have some of the truth, ‘my behaviour more excusable if I continue incognito.’
Smiling more broadly, Martin inclined his head in acceptance. ‘Very well. But what should I call you?’
With a gentle smile that, unbeknown to her, held an element of sweet shyness quite at odds with her years, Helen said, ‘You choose. I’m sure you can invent something appropriate.’
Her smile very nearly overset Martin’s much tried control. He had thought it strengthened by the years, but fair Juno was temptation beyond any he had ever faced. Invent something? His mind was seething with invention, did she but know it. But, as knowledge of his thoughts would hardly be conducive to allowing her to continue with reasonable calm in his company, he could only be thankful that they did not show in his face.
They did show in his eyes. Even with the table between them, Helen saw the smoke rise and cloud the grey. Stormy heat caressed her. Mesmerised, she sat and waited, breathless and trying to hide it. Heaven forbid that he ever realise how much he affected her!
‘Juno,’ Martin said, just managing to keep his voice within acceptable range. ‘Fair Juno.’ His smile was entirely beyond his control, laced with wicked thoughts and scandalous suggestion.
Helen lifted one brow, trying to pour cold water on the flames she could feel flickering around them. ‘I hardly think, my lord, that such an allusion is appropriate.’
His smile only gained in intensity. ‘On the contrary, my dear. I feel it entirely appropriate.’
Helen tried to frown. Juno—queen of the goddesses. How could she argue with that?
‘And now, having settled our immediate future, I suggest we get on our way.’ Martin rose and stretched, letting languid grace cloak his haste. If he did not get out of here soon, and back to the relative safety of the curricle’s box seat, he would not answer for the consequences. Exposure to fair Juno was sapping all will to resist his rakish inclinations. And he had dinner with her, alone, to look forward to. He had need to recoup what strength he could.
He went around the table and helped her to her feet. Tucking her small hand into the crook of his arm, he led her to the door. ‘Come, my lad
y. Your carriage awaits.’
Chapter Four
They had chosen the Bells at Cholderton as their overnight stop. The small town nestled just south of the London road, the major traffic passing by without pause. The Bells was an old house, less frequented in these days of rapid travel but still in sufficiently good state to hold promise of a comfortable night.
Shown into a private parlour, Helen glanced about at the faded elegance. She nodded in approval, her haughty demeanour supporting their fiction. Martin had told their story, his natural arrogance wiping out any possibility of disbelief. Lord and Lady Willesden required rooms for the night. The landlord found nothing amiss with the request; he was, in fact, only too pleased to see them.
‘My good wife will have your supper ready directly, m’lord. There’s duck and partridge, with lamb’s-foot jelly and a wine syllabub to follow.’
Languidly superior, Martin nodded. ‘That should do admirably.’
When the door closed behind the little man, Martin glanced her way, laughter lurking in his grey eyes. ‘Just so,’ he said, his smile warming her every bit as much as the fire in the grate.
Feeling her nervousness increase as he drew nearer, Helen turned to hold out her chilled fingers to the blaze. When the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, he had insisted she don his greatcoat. Her fingers went to the heavy garment to ease it from her shoulders. Instantly, he was beside her. His fingers brushed hers.
‘Here, let me.’
She had to, for she could not have moved if the ceiling had fallen. His gentle touch, so simple but almost a caress, and the velvety quality cloaking his rumbling growl, drowned her senses in dizzying distraction. The effect he had on her was intensifying with time. How on earth was she to survive the evening?
As soon as he stepped away from her to drop the coat over a chair, Helen sank into the armchair by the fire. She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his intent gaze when he turned once more to face her.
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