“I don’t know. I suppose there could be.”
“Fresh cream and good home-made cheeses. Imagine that, Jenny.”
“Who is Mrs. Everly?” Jenny asked.
“Why, she was Miss Paulette’s companion. When Paulette’s mother died, Mrs. Everly took over teaching Paulette how to be a lady.”
Neither woman had taught her anything about being a woman. Paulette had asked about what went on in a bridal chamber, but both her mama, and then later, Mrs. Everly had mumbled and stalled until they thought Paulette’s curiosity had passed.
It hadn’t passed. She’d consulted with Mabel, who’d offered no answers either, perhaps because she didn’t know herself, though how could that be at her age?
The coach rattled on, and when Mabel began to snore, Paulette crossed to the rear-facing seat. “You are much younger than me, I think, Jenny.”
“I’m sixteen, miss.”
“I imagine…you might know more, in some ways, than I do. Having lived in London.”
“Not much that is pleasant, miss.”
Oh. She fumbled around in her mind for words. She did not wish to stir unpleasant memories.
“What is it you wish to know, miss?”
Mabel snorted loudly and went back to sleep.
Paulette lowered her voice. “The wedding night. No one will tell me exactly what goes on. Though I have an idea.”
Jenny’s gaze was solemn. Paulette clasped her hand. “I do not mean to stir bad memories. Forgive me.”
“That man didn’t enter me in the laundry, though it were close.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“It weren’t God. It were Mr. Gibson.” Jenny squeezed her hand hard. “With a kind man, it is pleasant, leastwise that’s what the girls say.”
Jenny shared the whispered details of her education, her early years crouched in the corner of a room warmed by many bodies, some of them engaged in carnal acts. “I did see his…his shaft, miss. It did seem very big, but they say it does fit, and some say they even do enjoy it if the man knows his way about a woman’s body, and if they like him.”
Heat blasted through her, remembering the kiss that had been more than just one kiss.
“And pardon me saying, but I think Mr. Gibson does care for you.”
Her body thrummed with excitement, or need, or both.
Across from them, Mabel stirred and yawned. “I wonder if there is any of that loaf left. I’m ever so hungry.”
Paulette felt the emptiness of her stomach, but no hunger, and she had barely touched food all day. They’d been traveling since dawn, sustained by the cold meats and cheeses packed by Greencastle’s cook. She had no idea what the men had eaten. Even their few privy stops had been quick.
She wondered if Mr. Gibson was too excited to eat also.
A smattering of cottages passed in their side view.
“Where are we now, Polly?”
She pressed her nose to the window’s wavy glass. The twilight was thickening. “I don’t know. I hope we’ve reached Scotch Corner.” Mr. Gibson had explained the route at breakfast. At Scotch Corner, they would turn off the Great Northern Road and use the summer route, from Barnard Castle, following the River Tees through Alston and Brampton and Carlisle. They were all just names on a map to her, except for their destination, Gretna Green.
If they made good time, he’d promised to stop for a meal at Scotch Corner before they pushed on, like they were in one of Wellington’s campaigns, running toward battle.
Her stomach was so rattled, she wouldn’t be able to eat, but at least she would see him and talk to him.
The thought sent a shiver through her.
Minutes later, they’d stopped in front of an inn. The coach swayed as the men on top climbed down, but the usual quick bustle of horses being changed was absent.
“Praise be to God,” Mabel exclaimed. “We’re stopping for dinner.”
Moments later, Johnny reached a hand to help Paulette down. She looked around, unable to spot Mr. Gibson. While Mr. Kincaid spoke with an ostler, Ewan unstrapped their travel bags and handed them down to an inn servant.
They were spending the night. Relief and the need to stretch out in a proper bed…
Her breath caught. Perhaps she wouldn’t be all alone in her bed. Perhaps Mr. Gibson would want to be with her tonight. The thought sent all of her nerves dancing and heat rushing through her center.
And worry crept in. A stopover hadn’t been part of the plan. What if he’d changed his mind?
“Where—” She bit back the question—Where is Mr. Gibson? She was always looking for him, always a step behind. She needed to let him ask after her.
Anyway, she didn’t need to ask where he’d expect her to be. This inn surely had a private dining room. She lifted her chin and marched across the yard.
The meal was a good one, and Bink plowed through it. After a full day on horseback with sparse food he was glad to have one appetite satisfied.
“Fetch two brandies,” he told the serving wench. “Will you not eat, love?” he asked Paulette. She hadn’t touched a bite.
She turned a scowl on the maid’s back and when the door closed, scooted her chair closer.
His pulse thrummed. If he crooked one of his fingers could he move her into his lap? In another twenty-four hours, she’d be his to do as he pleased with, and by God, he wanted her right now.
Her hand touched the back of his collar, a tremble traveling from the point of contact up her arm and all the way down to his cock. Either she’d had more experience in that tiny village than anyone knew, or she was one of those women with a natural sensuality.
Didn’t matter. He was taking her, and the sooner the better. The thought tightened his trousers and made him ache.
She stood and leaned over the table to reach the flagon, her breasts straining against her gown. His to bed.
And his to protect, and from what—besides the usual louts—he still hadn’t been able to discover. He’d questioned Kincaid, to no avail.
He tugged at his neck cloth. He should have stayed at Greencastle and posted banns, and to hell with Scottish divorces. He’d meant what he said about that marriage loophole. What was his, would be his. His own lust to take her honorably—and quickly—had made him agree to this hair-brained scheme.
On the road, they’d passed groups of men from the north, traveling afoot to join the worker’s rally scheduled to take place in Manchester.
In his best burr, with his pistol tucked into his belt, he’d defused the tension, and tension there was aplenty. The loss of a livelihood and hunger drove men and women to do fearsome things. Hadn’t the French demonstrated that?
The next day’s route should be less traveled, but if a fight came their way, either through travellers or Paulette’s mysterious threat, he needed a rest, as did the other men.
Paulette spoke, but he barely heard her words.
“What did you say, love?”
She frowned at her plate, her fork making circles in the untouched peas. From the line of her jaw, she was brewing a head of steam.
The serving wench reappeared with a bottle and two glasses, and Paulette’s frown turned into a glare.
What the devil was wrong now?
Drat the lass, and damn him for a fool. It would have been easier to keep her safe at Greencastle.
Except, Agruen was there. And Bink hadn’t kept the place safe for wee Jenny.
He swiped a hand through his hair. He should have ignored Paulette’s pleas and ferried her directly from her cottage back to Cransdall where the spymaster’s army of loyal lackeys could keep her safe until the wedding. Except, if they hadn’t seen Little Norwick, there’d have been no wedding.
The thought brought him back to his senses. She was marrying him for the property, not for some great passion. Best to keep that in mind, take his pleasure, and make the best of it.
While the girl cleared the table, he passed a glass to Paulette and they drank in a less than companionabl
e silence.
Devil take it. His sore arse and his aching body begged for sleep, while his nerves wound up tight, the way they had before battle, and his shaft…his shaft was a damned distraction.
He escorted her up the stairs. Outside her door, he handed her the candle, took her free hand and saw the storm brewing in her eyes. “Tomorrow is another hard day. We both need to rest.”
She lifted her chin and he saw that her lips trembled and his heart started up a brisk tattoo to match.
“If I kiss you, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to stop. And if I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength tomorrow to keep going.”
“Good night then.” She opened the door, and slipped in.
The snick of the door brought him up. Too quick that had been. He shook his head. Ah, Bink, you dog, you’d hoped to be seduced.
Chapter 13
Paulette set her light on the bedside table. Her travel bag rested on a bench, her writing case perched on top. Mabel had laid out her nightrail on the wide bed. She’d had a chance to freshen up before dinner and had seen that big bed, her body quickening with the possibility she might share it.
Mabel and Jenny’s chamber was just down the hall. One of them would sleep on the narrow bed there, the other on the floor on a pallet.
Unless they switched rooms.
She paced to the window and looked out into the dark dale beyond. This room was quieter, and Jenny, after her brutal bruising, needed the quiet and the comfort of a bed, even a shared one.
She draped the nightclothes over her arm. Perhaps Mr. Gibson’s chamber would have a wide bed, and he would be alone in it, wouldn’t he?
Heat rose in her, her jaw tightening painfully. The buxom serving wench had cast him an eye, several eyes actually, and her bodice had dipped lower with every platter delivered.
Not that he’d noticed. He hadn’t noticed Paulette tonight either, almost as though he was losing interest.
Like Papa had lost interest. He’d ignored her and Mama, as had her guardian, Lord Shaldon.
In those letters to Shaldon, she’d asked first to visit him. She could feel him out about the treasure, but there was more she wanted.
She wanted a purpose. She wanted a life.
When his man put her off, she’d dared to put the offer in writing—her services to the crown. If Mama could do it, so could she.
Instead, Shaldon had given her this husband. She couldn’t let the man lose interest before the wedding night. He’d promised to take her to London, and the way he’d kissed her in the corridor outside her chamber…Warmth unfurled in her. Now that her path was set, she would see it through, at least through the wedding night.
A knock announced the flirting maidservant with a bucket of steaming water for her and a stack of bedding tucked under one arm. “Some hot water, miss. And I’ve got the pallet for your girl right here.”
Paulette took the bucket and set it near the cold hearth. “We won’t need the pallet. We are switching rooms.”
The girl’s mouth dropped. “This chamber’s much nicer, miss. Ye’ll have the noise of the courtyard there.”
“Never you mind.” She ushered the girl out and down the hall to Mabel and Jenny’s chamber. “If anyone asks, I’ll be in this bedchamber.” In fact, it would place her further from the room where she planned to spend the night, but if anyone should suspect, the maid’s testimony would preserve her reputation.
A safeguard if after bedding her, he should decide to change his mind about marriage.
While the house settled, Bink stripped off his coats and his neck cloth and sat down to write Hackwell a report on the roads. He would send it south with the morning mail.
The public rooms quietened, and here, on this dark side of the building, only the distant hoot of an owl and occasional snorting of horses in the back stalls of the stables filtered through the wide open window.
It had been a warm afternoon, and the breeze still had not swept the heat from these upper story rooms. He yanked his shirt over his head and went to the basin, splashing himself with the cool water.
Outside, a horse was being led to the stables, the shuffle of hooves muffled.
He froze, and strained to discern what had raised his hackles.
Whispers in the hall slithered over him and he threw aside his towel. Paulette was abed, and someone was creeping along the corridor, close to her door. As he reached for his pistol, his own door latch creaked.
The scent of flowers wafted in on a draft that sputtered the flame of his candle and eased his breathing.
“Mr. Gibson?”
The husky, whispered voice sent him to half-mast and his chest tightened with a different kind of wariness.
He set the pistol aside, grabbed for his shirt and groped his arms into it, catching them in the tangled sleeves.
A set of small hands worked the linen up his arms and down his body and pulled the hem into place, covering the evidence of his arousal—before she noticed it, he prayed.
He looked down into two dark, intense eyes, and then noted the robe with its slack belt, the fringing of lace at her creamy neck, and her hair flowing in waves past her shoulder. He fisted a hank of hair and tried to catch his breath.
You shouldn’t be here. She had nothing on but a robe he could rip off her shoulders, and a nightrail he could lift in a wink. And he could be in her in seconds, pounding out this need like the madman he was right now.
He leaned and touched his forehead to hers. “Go back to your room, lass.”
“I, I…” She cleared her throat. “I want…you…”
His pulse raged, his cock throbbed and he couldn’t form words.
She exhaled a hint of a minty tooth powder. “I want you to… to talk to me.” She took a step back but gripped fistfuls of linen. “If you would, please. May I stay with you tonight? It is only a few hours. And we’ll be wed tomorrow.”
He squeezed his eyes shut on the vision of her in his bed, under him, tried to think of something, anything else—horse droppings, foul privies, the stench of a tannery.
When he opened his eyes, she was frowning, and he saw it there—fear. The girl was frightened.
Shame trickled through him. She feared he couldn’t protect her unless she was in his very bedchamber.
Her teeth slipped over her lower lip and began to gnaw, and it hit him—what a fool he was. It wasn’t her physical safety that rattled her.
Not fear for her safety then, but what?
Shame turned to fierce warmth, setting his body afire. Pulse pounding, he slid a finger under her smooth chin and tipped it up. “Why?”
“Will we go to Scotland tomorrow? Will you go through with this wedding?”
“Have I given you reason to doubt me?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You barely spoke to me all day.”
His chest eased even as his trousers tightened more, all of his thoughts in a jumble. She wanted to be sure of him, she wanted his bed, and not just for money, not for security and safety. This was the price of a warm woman as bedmate—talking, and lots of it.
But as her gaze and those hands slid over his chest, his dick reminded him there was a way to silence her.
No. If they opened this particular tinderbox, the fire would rage until dawn, and she would not be able to sit for a week. They’d never make Gretna the next day.
“I have a plan,” he said.
She lifted that determined chin and his finger followed it up. “So do I.”
He held back a chuckle. “You plan to seduce me tonight. To make sure of me.”
That flustered her and left her gulping for air.
He drew her closer and stroked a length of soft hair. “It is a good plan. One I’d like to partake of, believe me.”
“But?”
“But I’m not sure you’d be able to ride all day in a coach tomorrow after I’ve ridden you all night.” And it would be all night.
Her eyes went wide. “Does it hurt that much?”
Ah, she was definitely a virgin. He felt an odd sense of relief, glad to be her first, and terrified. Like breeding a cart horse on a pony, he didn’t know how he’d not hurt her, but he must find a way.
“I don’t know in fact. But I’ll make sure whatever pain you feel is secondary to the pleasure.”
She sighed and settled against him, and he realized his hand had started to move over her back.
“You will kiss me again?”
The heat of her sigh seared through his shirt, branding his heart.
“Aye.”
“On the lips?”
Desire rippled through him. “Oh, yes.”
She quivered. “And the neck?”
He planted a kiss there and smiled when she jumped. “Definitely the neck then.”
She looked up, eyes wide, mouth parted. Ready to be ravished.
His pulse pounded in his ear. He had only a few minutes of control left.
She pressed her palm to his chest and swirled it. “Will you take off your shirt when you make love to me?”
“Would you like me to?”
She nodded. “I saw your chest when I entered. You’re hairy.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes then, I’ll show you my hairy chest.”
“Then I’ll show you my not-hairy one.”
A vision of those breasts swamped him and he groaned. She tightened her embrace.
“We must get you to bed.” Not that he would be able to sleep with her naked breasts bouncing around in his dreams.
She frowned and opened her mouth, but a rap on the door made him release her. He stepped in front of Paulette and asked “Who’s there?”
The door opened. The wench who’d served them stood there, a candle held high, and the neckline of her frock dipping low to the pink tips of her tits. She cocked her head and smiled.
“What—”
“You might want some company, I heard.”
“Devil take it. You heard wrong. Get out.”
Paulette stepped from behind him and the wench’s eyes narrowed.
“You invited her to your chamber?”
The crack in Paulette’s voice sparked panic in him. Not wed yet, and she already doubted him.
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 13