The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1)
Page 31
“I am fine.” She pulled her cape tighter against that gaze, and against some intoxicating aura that was spinning in the air. This fine coach was well sealed against the icy wind that had knifed through the cracked glass and creaky seams of the public coach. She was well sealed into a tight cocoon of unexpected warmth and unfamiliar sensations.
Heavens. His eyes still studied her, riled her. In his well-cut clothes, and still-shiny boots, he was dashingly handsome, full of himself and his privilege, like every other “my Lord” she had met. Like her own dear father, she thought sadly.
Rosalyn inwardly shook herself. She was heading back into the district of her childhood, and thoughts of her father and her lost inheritance had plagued her through much of this journey. She must keep her focus. After this leg of the trip, Cathmore would surely be no bother to her. Since he had arranged for his private coach, he would surely travel on to his own estate after dropping them at their destination in Glen Murray, the Strutting Stag Inn.
Strutting Stag, indeed. There were plenty of dangers ahead without the intrusion of an entitled lord. Even without this Christmas Eve storm, they would not have been able to return to London tonight with Nelly’s cousin Mindy and her baby. Rosalyn counted on finding a room at the village’s other inn, and failing that, she and Nelly had calculated that Mindy would surely know a villager to offer them shelter.
“You are very lucky to have a cousin take you in,” Lord Cathmore’s voice dragged her back from her woolgathering. “What is her name? Perhaps I know her.”
He could not possibly run in Cousin Abigail’s circles, else Rosalyn would know him already. “Abigail Crompton,” she said, and then realized she had stumbled. She had said Abigail was her mother’s cousin.
The dark eyebrow lifted again.
Rosalyn had learned much about lying from her work at the orphanage. Not enough perhaps for the present need, but she must try. She mastered her urge to tremble and looked at him calmly.
“Begging your pardon, milord,” Nelly said. “But is it true you were at Waterloo? I lost a cousin there.”
Rosalyn eyed her maid, wondering where the girl had gleaned that bit of information, but grateful for the diversion.
Cathmore’s sardonic gaze shifted and he looked kindly at Nelly. “I was, Miss,” he said. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. A great many good men died that day.”
“But you stopped Boney. You did that.”
Nelly’s smile didn’t bring the attention Rosalyn knew the girl craved. Instead, Cathmore’s gaze moved to the coach window, and the silent Mr. Logan cast a concerned glance at his lordship.
The blowing snow obscured landmarks, but they seemed to be passing buildings. The trip had taken twice as long as it should have. The storm must indeed be worse in these parts.
“We’re here,” Cathmore said. “Where shall we drop you ladies?”
“At the inn,” Rosalyn said, “The Strutting Stag. Not the other one.”
“Since the fire a few years back, the Stag is the only inn in Glen Murray,” Mr. Logan said in a cultured, melodious tenor.
Apprehension chilled her. So, finding a bed for the night might be difficult.
“That is our destination also.” Cathmore’s eyes honed in on her.
A dart of some animal power struck Rosalyn, and the tingle she felt went beyond the anticipation of taking on Ned Morgan to free Mindy and possibly achieve her other, more secret, more personal, quest.
She must keep to her purpose. She had seen his lordship’s type in London, perched on high horses, kicking up mud, and disrupting traffic. The money they spent on gambling and prostitutes—Cousin Abigail wasn’t one to hide the sordid straits of other young women—that money could have kept the orphans well fed from the cradle till they left for positions and apprenticeships. Cousin Abigail had warned about his type, but Rosalyn had never truly understood the feelings such a man could incite with only a smile.
Her face burned with confused emotions, but she latched on to indignation. Her presence at the Inn would be no invitation to Cathmore, and he would soon find that out.
“I would be so happy for a spot of something hot,” Nelly said.
“Then you shall have it,” Cathmore replied.
Rosalyn’s hackles rose at the forthright manner of her maid, and his Lordship’s accommodating response, but he still looked without impropriety on Nelly. He seemed to save his burning looks for Rosalyn.
She squeezed Nelly’s hand. “All will soon be well,” she said. She caught Cathmore’s curious eye and managed a firm frown.
When the coach stopped, Cathmore took charge, sending Logan and Nelly along, and reaching a gloved hand up to Rosalyn.
She hesitated. Now that the thing was upon her, her heart quaked.
“Come along, Miss Crompton,” Cathmore said. “You’ll be warmer inside.”
She gave him her hand. Warmth coursed through her now, and with it, confidence. Her own, she thought, but then she saw Cathmore’s grin, and knew this heat was one more of his sensual powers. He dropped her hand, and swept her off the step as easily as lifting a child. Before she could even think to be outraged, his right hand gripped hers, his mantle-draped left arm secured her shoulder, and they were gliding across the icy yard to the open inn door.
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Book Two in the Sons of the Spy Lord Series
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