Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland

by Karen Hawkins

  “Just a word of warning, my little liar: I am in charge of this expedition and what I say goes.”

  She arched a brow, but shrugged. “Fine. You can be in charge if it makes you feel better.”

  “It does. And when we recover the artifact, it is mine and you are not to get grandiose ideas of stealing it for your own benefit. Are we clear on that fact?”

  She jerked free of his hold, her eyes flashing with indignation. “I would never do such a thing.”

  “We shall see.” He turned toward the door and left.

  Marcail fought a very unladylike urge to stomp her foot. With a low growl, she marched to the door and slammed it. She went to turn the key, but it was gone.

  Muttering under her breath, she turned back to her things. In a satisfyingly short time, the small trunk and portmanteau were neatly stacked in the center of the room.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. At her call, the door opened and the porter stood in the doorway holding a bucket of steaming water.

  “I was asked t’ bring ye some fresh water, miss. Is the washbowl broken?”

  She glanced to one side of the dresser where large pieces of glass announced the broken pitcher, but the washbowl was intact.

  The porter set down the bucket and fetched the bowl and replaced it upon the stand, finding the cake of soap and some towels in the process. He tsked as he rearranged the items on the stand. “It’s a heavy bowl, miss. I daresay whoever ransacked yer room couldn’t break it, though he tried.” He poured the hot water into the bowl. “I’m sorry this happened, miss. We’ve ne’er had such behavior here at the Royal Hotel before.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t. Please thank the innkeeper for the water.”

  The porter headed for the door. “Oh, ’twasn’t Mr. Clabber who ordered the water, but the captain. He said ye helped fight the fire at the quay and would want to wash. Do ye need anythin’ else, miss?”

  “No, thank you. That will be all.”

  The porter closed the door and Marcail swiftly removed her gown, chemise, and stockings. She washed as well as she could. The warm water was blissful, the feeling of once again being clean making her sigh with happiness. Though the water and soap stung her raw hands, she staunchly hurried through it.

  It was so kind of William to send her the water. She didn’t understand the man at all.

  Shouting arose in the courtyard along with the tramping of horses’ hooves. She hurriedly pulled on new stockings and slipped her chemise over her head. She’d just tied it when she heard William’s voice at the bottom of the stairs.

  She quickly twisted her hair into a knot and pinned it in place, then reached for her gown. She yanked it over her head and was attempting to lace it up when a sharp knock echoed on the door. Before she could answer, William stalked in.

  She spun around, her ties forgotten. “Blast you, William! What’s the point of knocking if you’re just going to storm in?”

  He gave her a wolfish grin, his dark hair damp, water droplets sprinkled on a multicaped overcoat that was susprisingly fashionable.

  “It’s raining?” she asked, reaching back for her ties and hoping he wouldn’t notice that the neck of her gown wasn’t as secure as it should be.

  “Aye. We’re taking your coach instead of mine since it’s lighter and faster.”

  “Fine, I—ow!” The ties had rubbed her raw palms and she maneuvered them so that only her fingers made contact.

  His dark gaze took in her struggles. “That’s not working; you’re going to have to actually hold the laces.”

  “I know, but they hurt my hands.”

  He muttered a curse and crossed to her, turned her around, and laced her up with an expertise that made her face flame.

  Each time his hand brushed her skin, a jolt shot through her, making her skin prickle and her nipples tingle as if he’d touched them.

  Finally, he was done. “There.” He stepped away from her and went to her stacked luggage. “Is this all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then I’ll send the porter up for the rest.” He hefted the trunk to one shoulder, his expression inscrutable, though his jaw was tight. “Poston is impressed with your coach. Colchester spares no expense, does he?”

  “He tends to be an excessive gift giver, but as I told you before, I purchased the team myself.” She threw her cloak over her arm and swept out of the room.

  He joined her at the bottom of the stairs, looking dark and—damn it, delectable. Even after all these years, after all the pain and trouble, he still appealed to her—a fact that she’d best forget.

  She glanced at him from under her lashes as she walked past, noting the sensual line of his mouth and the strong set of his jaw. His dark hair fell over his forehead and made his dark blue eyes seem all the more brilliant.

  She tugged her bonnet on and stepped outside into the light rain.

  William sent the porter after her remaining luggage, bustled her out of the rain and into the ready coach, and then spoke with John Poston about their journey.

  Marcail removed her bonnet, shook off the raindrops, and placed it on the seat beside her, watching William through the carriage window.

  There was one other issue that was bothering her, itching her thoughts like a gnat bite, and that was how efficiently he’d tied her laces. He’d obviously spent the past few years tying many, many sets of laces. Of course he had. What else did you expect?

  She’d known he wouldn’t become a monk after she’d sent him away, he was too passionate for that. She’d known he would enjoy the favors of many other women. Yet it hurt, facing the evidence of those missing years.

  Those years should have been mine. Had my life been different and my obligations less, we might have—But I can’t think that way.

  There was no sense in wishing for what was gone; it would never return. She pulled her cloak over her, tucking it about her legs, then she closed her eyes and rested her head against the high squabs. It had been a long day and she was exhausted beyond thought.

  Soon, the coach rocked as William climbed inside. Feeling sad and alone, Marcail kept her eyes shut, hoping he’d think she was asleep.

  He shut the door and banged the flat of his hand upon the coach ceiling. Then they were under way, the coach rolling out of the inn yard and onto the road leading out of town.

  A letter from the Earl of Colchester to his mistress, Miss Marcail Beauchamp, upon the occasion of their first anniversary.

  By now I trust you will have seen your present. I know what you’re going to say, that it’s too grand or big or what have you. But it’s mine to give and give it I shall.

  So please take this small gift—’tis naught but a coach, after all. I am regarded as a leader of fashion, therefore you must be in fashion, too. A lamentable burden, but there it is.

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcail awoke to a blindingly bright light that made her immediately close her eyes again. “Good God,” she muttered, putting a hand on her bed to lever herself upright. As she did so, a rather violent jolt almost sent her tumbling. She grabbed the closest solid object—her pillow—and hung on for dear life.

  In that instant, it dawned on her that pillows were neither this firm nor this attached. It also dawned on her that beds didn’t go lurching about.

  She blinked herself awake and realized that she was lying on the seat of her coach, her arms wrapped about a man’s thigh.

  And not just any man’s thigh, but a very firm, very muscular thigh. William. Oh, good God, how did I get here?

  Heart pounding, she peeked up at him and saw that he was sound asleep, his hat tipped down over his eyes, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

  She cautiously unwrapped her arms and tried to rise, but he stirred restlessly, his arm coming to rest on her shoulders.

  Marcail immediately replaced her cheek upon his thigh and waited with bated breath, aware of the warmth of his arm as it rested on her. Perhaps she should just stay where she was, considering th
e rocking of the coach.

  Somehow during the night, she’d curled up on the coach seat, her feet tucked under her, her head resting in William’s lap. Her cloak must have fallen while she was still sitting, for it was bunched over her hip. Not that she was cold, for she was far too snug with William’s arm over her.

  It was odd and—if she allowed herself a moment of complete honesty—heavenly.

  She listened to his slow, even breathing, remembering the events of the day before. If anyone had a reason to sleep like the dead, it was William. Despite his stoic expression, she was certain the loss of his ship had hurt deeply. She snuggled a bit closer to him and sighed.

  Damn that stoic expression. He’s gotten far too comfortable hiding behind it. Yet another difference from the man she’d fallen in love with years ago. Back then he had been expressive, open, sharing. She’d loved his genuine interest in a variety of things, his curiosity about life and all it brought. Now he seemed far older than his years, and harsher than he should be.

  Is that because of me? She hoped not. I never meant to hurt him—but it was a matter of doing it then, or waiting for something bad to befall us both.

  She turned her head and looked at him again. His chin was buried in the muffler around his neck, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. The sound of his breathing was deliciously comforting.

  Marcail knew she should move, but part of her wanted to savor this moment. There was something so very intimate about waking up encircled by another person. The warmth of the moment, the softness of his woolen breeches, the firm thigh beneath that, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, all held her in place.

  Marcail closed her eyes. Colchester had his own apartments on another floor. Though he made a show of coming to visit her suite for appearance’s sake, he rarely stayed more than an hour or two, at most.

  They’d sit by the fire and talk about their day’s events; sometimes he’d help her with her lines. He was a talented thespian and she’d always thought it a pity that he’d never been able to use his gifts.

  She treasured those times with Colchester, who’d become the brother she’d never had. As his relationship with George Aniston had blossomed she saw much less of him, of course, and she was often home alone for days on end.

  For someone who grew up with four sisters, the solitude was difficult; there were times when she was achingly lonely.

  The coach turned a corner and Marcail noticed that the road seemed much smoother. Were they nearing a town?

  She glanced out the uncovered window. The storm clouds had disappeared and the brilliant blue sky of an early spring day filled the windowpane. She lifted her head a little to see if the view provided any clue to the temperature.

  As she shifted, William stirred, his hand moving from her shoulder to settle directly on her breast.

  Marcail froze, instantly aware of the curve of that large hand as it intimately warmed her breast. Shivers traveled over her and she silently grasped his wrist and lifted his hand, hoping to move it away.

  He murmured something in his sleep and replaced his hand exactly where it had been before.

  Startled, she peeped back up at him, but his deep breathing never faltered. Perhaps she should wake him?

  But then she’d have to rise, and she didn’t wish to. Perhaps she could just ignore his hand—yet she found herself fighting a most unladylike urge to arch into the embrace.

  Stop that! It’s an accident; random contact. Don’t overreact. She’d be better off thinking of a way to set their new partnership on a better footing.

  Yesterday they’d spent the entire time at each other’s throats. She wanted this day to be different, and the wonderful feel of his hand loosely cupped about her breast seemed to promise that. They were no longer at odds, but partners.

  It would only be for a day or so, but she couldn’t ignore the opportunity. This was her chance to get William to see her in a new light.

  But what did one say to a man one had recently drugged, tied up, and robbed? That sounds bad even to me.

  She’d attempted to apologize, which hadn’t been very well received, so what could she say? Perhaps—

  She gasped. William’s thumb was now rubbing her nipple though her clothing. Her nipple peaked, sending sensations rippling all of the way to her now curled toes.

  Marcail grasped his wrist and twisted to look up at him. “You, sir, are awake!”

  His hat was still pulled down over his eyes, but his lips curved into a crooked grin that was masculinely wicked. “Am I?”

  “Oh! You—” She tried to sit up but found her hair was trapped beneath his leg. “I’m caught. Move, Hurst.”

  He chuckled and tipped his hat back, his blue eyes warm with laughter. “Perhaps I like having you at my mercy.”

  Her heart leapt at his teasing tone. She’d wanted to start on a new note, but not one with her at such a disadvantage. “William, please move.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  She made a fist and let it hover over his unprotected nether regions, then smiled sweetly.

  He instantly complied. “Touché.” He lifted his leg and she was freed.

  Marcail pushed herself upright and scooted to the far end of the seat. Without his arm about her, the air was uncomfortably cold. She shivered as she wrapped her cloak around her and buttoned it. “I was trying to lie very still so that you wouldn’t awaken. Had I known you were pretending to sleep, I could have been much more comfortable.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps you enjoyed it.”

  “You flatter yourself,” she replied loftily. “I was merely being considerate.”

  He raised his brows.

  “At first, I thought you didn’t realize you were doing it—”

  “Uhm-hmm.”

  “—but then I realized you knew exactly what you were doing.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “Admit you enjoyed it—at least a little.”

  A lot, yes. Never a little. “Especially not a little. You, sir, owe me an apology.”

  He didn’t look the least bit sorry. “I rather enjoyed having you asleep in my lap. You must have been comfortable, for you slept for a long time.”

  “I was exhausted; I could have slept on a rock.” She searched the seat for her missing hairpins, still feeling flustered. “How did I come to be sleeping on your lap? When I went to sleep, you were on the opposite seat.”

  “You slept for a short time sitting up, but then we went through a rough section of road and you started to slip to one side, so I stopped you from falling and hitting your head.”

  She had an instant, faint memory of William’s warm hands as he gently settled her head onto his lap, but it was gone so quickly that she wasn’t certain if she’d actually remembered it, or if her imagination had enjoyed the scenario so much that it had just adopted the idea.

  He regarded her with mock seriousness. “It was a very dangerous moment. You could have lost an eye.”

  Her lips twitched. “That would have ended my career, for there are no parts for women with only one eye.”

  He seemed to consider this. “You could play one of the witches in MacBeth.”

  “Well … that’s the only part.”

  “And having only one eye would make it very difficult for you to choose such ravishing bonnets.” He reached for her bonnet on the opposite seat and held it up. “Even I like this one, and I’m not much of a bonnet admirer.”

  She eyed the bonnet with satisfaction. It was a flat-crowned velvet confection with jaunty red sashing to match her pelisse. “I do have a fondness for hats.”

  William tossed the bonnet back onto the seat. “So I remember.”

  Her good humor fled. Every time he mentioned their past, she had to fight a wave of guilt. She knew from experience that of all the emotions, guilt was one of the most destructive, which was why it was so prominently featured on the stage.

  As she pinned the last few strands of her hair back into place, the coach slowed down and she lea
ned forward and watched as they pulled into an inn yard.

  As soon as the coach halted, William opened the door, stepped out, and pulled down the steps. He held out his hand. “Would you care to alight?”

  A low-slung, squarish inn made of gray stone sat beside a narrow country road. Six other small houses and a church with a graveyard were the rest of the small village.

  “Poston!” William called as Marcail alighted.

  The coachman was just swinging down from his perch. “Aye, sir?”

  “Make inquiries about a tall, red-haired woman. She may have stopped here; I haven’t seen many inns on this road.”

  “There have been remarkably few, which is good fer us, Cap’n. If a lady, redheaded or no’, stopped, she’d be remembered. That will be different once we come to the North Road, though.” Poston’s thick gray eyebrows lowered.” ’Tis very busy and it will be harder to track ’er.”

  “And,” Marcail added, “she’s notoriously difficult to follow, so we must make haste and use every advantage we have.”

  Poston nodded. “She’s keepin’ up the devil’s own pace. I expected to catch her before now.”

  William turned to look at the horses. “You’re having them changed here?”

  “Yes. The ostler at the Bull and Bush said ’tis run by his cousin, and the cattle are all bang up to the mark. He said we could pick up a horse fer an outrider, too, if ye wish.”

  “We could send a footman ahead to scout.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’, too.”

  “Do so, then.” He turned to Marcail. “You should avail yourself of the accommodations, for we won’t be here long. The weather is going to turn so we need to hurry.”

  Marcail looked doubtfully up at the clear sky.

  “Yes. The sunrise was red; we’ll see a squall before nightfall. With any luck, we’ll catch up to Miss Challoner before then.”

  “Very well; I shall be swift. I’ll need my portmanteau, if you please.”

  He turned and yelled for one of the footmen, who fetched her portmanteau into the inn.

  Marcail followed him inside and requested a room and a pail of water. Since there was no time to have the water heated, she took a very cold and shivery sponge bath. The maid who attended her oohed and aahed over the gown Marcail selected to replace her crushed one, a deep blue dress with ruched violet trim that matched her eyes. Then the maid put up Marcail’s hair, twisting it into a smooth knot.