His gaze shifted to his traveling companion. Mrs. Donnelly, he reminded himself, recalling his initial physical reaction to the woman. She might be beguilingly lovely and smell delicious (her skin carried the kind of scent that made him long to nibble the delicate column of her throat, just beneath her ear), but she was married. Taken. A missionary, as well. And though his moral compass occasionally bent, he had never sunk so low as to knowingly seduce another man’s wife. Still, he found his eyes returning to her again and again.
She had spent the initial part of the journey occupied with a pencil and a journal, an adorably earnest frown between her brow as she scribbled away. Now she held a slim, leather-bound volume open before her. He suspected she used her absorption in the book as a ruse to preclude questions or conversation, for he hadn’t seen her turn a page in more than an hour. Not that he blamed her. She was squeezed four to a bench that might have comfortably fit three. Like him, she’d been seated smack in the middle—penance for being the last to board.
To Mrs. Donnelly’s left sat a heavyset matron whose enormous bosom seemed to defy gravity, being bolstered upward by thick corset stays, an engineering feat every bit as marvelous and complex as a the riggings on a four-masted vessel.
The matron’s daughters sat to Mrs. Donnelly’s right. Two rosy-cheeked country maids of perhaps sixteen or seventeen whose muffled conversations were punctuated by high-pitched fits of giggles. He had thought them innocent, but was soon obliged to reconsider that assessment. The coach rounded a bend and the girls sent him sly, deliberately provocative smiles. They exchanged a silent signal, then let out dramatic sighs and fanned themselves as though overly warm. They shrugged off their cloaks.
Well. Now this was interesting. Nature had endowed them as generously as their mother. As he watched, the sisters squirmed backward in a motion calculated to catch the seat of their gowns and drag down the bodices. Seconds later the coach hit a particularly bumpy stretch of road. Obviously the girls were familiar with the route, for the jarring motion sent their bosoms bouncing up and down, their flesh as soft and inviting as bin of peaches.
A marvelous display. And they weren’t finished yet.
The first girl drew her tongue over her bottom lip and arched her back. Her sister, not to be outdone, pressed her palms between her skirts and invitingly edged her thighs apart. Scandalous. Shocking. Such naughty, naughty girls. Jonathon couldn’t help but smile at the impromptu burlesque. Nor could he look away. How astonishing. Perhaps public transportation had something to recommend it after all.
Unfortunately the stimulating diversion ended all too quickly as the matron caught wind of the girls’ antics. She rapped her cane against the carriage floor and sent her daughters a fierce scowl. The girls sobered immediately, drew up their cloaks, and their giggling ceased.
Pity. They still had a long way to travel.
* * *
Brianna Donnelly had been blessed with a natural facility for words. Nuances of language came easily to her. That ability had served her well in Canton, with its foreign quarter drawing an influx of people from around the globe. She could speak English, pray in Latin, barter in Hindi, recite poetry in Farsi, sing in French, and swear in Mandarin. On any given day she might be obliged to perform any one, or perhaps even all, of those tasks.
In the science of arithmetic, however, she was not particularly gifted. That had been her late husband’s forte. Arthur had managed the household budget, handled the accounting ledger at the pub, set aside funds to pay taxes, duties, and other assorted fees associated with living in a bustling foreign port. And thank goodness for that. To Brianna, mathematics was nothing but a dreary chore. Now, however, as she did her sums for the third time as she bounced along in the crowded mail coach, she realized she had made an error.
She looked at the schedule in her hand, calculating the number of stops between Liverpool and London. She and Mr. Brooks would have to switch coaches more often than she’d presumed. Which unfortunately meant there would be an extra night’s lodgings, as well as additional meals. No matter how she worked it, she simply did not have the funds to cover the entire cost of two people traveling from Liverpool to London.
She bit back a sigh and rapped her fingers against the schedule. Blast and bloody blue hell. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. It might be a nuisance, but the problem was not insurmountable. They would simply have to make adjustments to their travel to accommodate their limited funds.
That decided, she turned her attention out the window as they came to a village. The coach slowed before a modest inn and the driver reined in his team. He jumped down, pulled open the coach door, and set out the steps. The passengers lumbered out of the vehicle, stiff and ungainly after hours in the cramped coach. Mr. Brooks collected her valise and turned to usher her inside, but she drew back and tilted her head, indicating the dirt lane that led through the village.
“Walk with me?”
A brief flash of surprise entered his gaze, but he nodded his assent and left her valise with their driver. They fell into step beside one another. Gray, blustery clouds hung low in the sky. The wind whipped at her skirts, but Brianna didn’t mind. It felt wonderful to stretch her legs. She was in no hurry to crowd into the inn with the same tight group, nor did the threat of inclement weather worry her. She found the rough twilight air exhilarating. After the stuffiness of the coach, the chill breeze washing over her body felt as cool and refreshing as an open-air bath.
They strolled in silence down the main road of the village as the day’s light slowly faded, each engrossed in his own thoughts. Small shops and houses dotted the lane. Brianna noted a boot maker, milliner, bakery, and general mercantile, all of whom proudly displayed their wares in their windows. The homes they passed were lit within by the soft golden glow of oil lamps; fires crackled with the hearths.
“Is this what all of England looks like?” she asked.
“This?” Mr. Brooks made a sweeping gesture at the village at large, then released a derisive breath. “No.”
She turned to him in surprise. “You don’t like it?”
“Don’t like what?” A wry smile played about his lips. “The dreary shops, shuttered pub, hatched-roof cottages, puddles of muck beneath our feet, or the smell of manure that hangs over everything?”
“Very well,” she returned briskly, “what sort of town do you like?”
“London.” His face showed unmistakable pride of place. “One can never grow bored of it. It’s nothing like this. There you have commerce, theater, dining establishments, parks, clubs, colleges, fine homes, museums, and sport. In short, everything required for civilized person to find contentment.”
She nodded, doing her best to ignore the tremor of apprehension that knotted her belly. The city certainly sounded exciting. It also sounded expensive, exclusive, and exhausting. The sort of place that would embrace Mr. Brooks—tall, handsome, educated, and cultured—but find Brianna herself (with her shorter stature, decidedly foreign looks, and outspoken manners) sadly lacking.
She pushed the worrisome thought away, turning her attention instead to her companion. “Were you born there?” she asked.
“In London? No. I was born in Hampshire. Just outside the lakes district.” He hesitated, then slid her a sideways glance. “Do you know it?”
She shook her head.
His shoulders relaxed slightly and he released a small breath. He seemed relieved at her ignorance of Hampshire geography, as though in that short exchange he’d given away more of himself than he’d wanted to.
How peculiar. The man was a puzzle. For all his breezy charm and dimpled smile, she couldn’t help but sense that he deliberately held part of himself back. There was a something about him that hinted at another persona entirely. It wasn’t merely in the way he spoke—his occupation was a valet, after all, so he could have easily learned to mimic his employer’s imperious tone and mannerisms.
No. It was Mr. Brooks’ manner of answering questions that caught her attent
ion. She’d noticed it when he’d been interviewed by Constable Williamson, and then again when conversing with the other passengers aboard the mail coach. He would hesitate ever so slightly, as though carefully considering questions that should have had easy answers.
No matter. Let him keep his secrets. Once they reached London they would part ways, she would collect the sum he’d promised her, and the man would no longer be her concern.
They reached the end of the lane, turned and began to retrace their steps. “Well. I find the village utterly charming. Only…” She lifted her hand to the brow of her bonnet and peered about her. “Where’s the castle?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Surely there’s a castle nearby?”
“A castle?”
“I thought all the villages in England… Never mind.” She shook her head, wanting to dismiss. the topic. But it wasn’t to be. Feeling his curious stare, she confessed, “It’s the books I’ve been reading. Dramatic novels.” A rueful smile curved her lips. “Growing up in Canton, I was given to understand the English landscape would have castles strewn about like shells in the sand.”
“Ah. Well, there may be one lurking about somewhere, but I rather doubt it.”
“I suppose next you’ll try to convince me there isn’t any such thing as a fire-breathing dragon.”
A small smile tugged his lips. A dimple appeared. “Here? Certainly not. I have it on the best authority that all the real dragons live in China.”
“Touché.”
She matched his smile with one of her own. Their eyes met and a frisson of understanding passed between them. The moment stretched, growing larger and imbued with an emotional weight, almost as though they’d known each other for years, rather than mere hours. There was something else in it, too. Brianna felt the same physical tug she’d experienced when she’d bathed his wound. An undercurrent of desire flooded through her, shocking her with its intensity.
Mr. Brooks was the first to recover from the spell that held them frozen in its place. He gave his head a slight shake as though to clear it. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely hoarse. “Mrs. Donnelly…”
“Yes?”
“Your husband was unable to accompany you to London?”
“No. My husband passed away a year ago. In Canton.”
“Ah. I see.” A score of emotions flashed through his eyes, but they vanished too quickly for her to read. “My sympathies.”
A sharp gust of wind plastered her skirts against her legs. Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding her of her purpose. The storm was drawing nearer. Time to find shelter. “Mr. Brooks, I did not bring you out here to discuss the village, or my personal life.”
“No?”
“No. The fact is, I’m afraid we may be in a bit of trouble. Rather serious trouble, really.”
Her dire pronouncement failed to have the desired effect. Instead of concern, amusement glimmered in his sapphire eyes. “Are all missionaries as earnest as you are?”
She blinked in surprise. “Me? I’m not a missionary.”
“But you must be. You were with Father Tim and Sister…”
“Mary Louise.”
She gave a light shrug. “We boarded the same vessel in Shanghai. As I was traveling alone, Father Tim was kind enough to take me under his wing. It was only a temporary arrangement.”
“But I thought you… So you’re not an innocent, devout woman, intent on saving souls?”
She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Hardly. My husband and I ran a pub in Canton.”
“A pub?”
“Yes. A pub.”
She’d clearly disturbed whatever comfortable assumptions he’d made about her. His words came out slowly, and she could almost hear his thoughts clanging and bumping about in his mind, like gears that had slipped free of their mooring cogs.
“I see. So you’re—”
“Concerned,” she replied succinctly, determined to force their conversation back on track. ”As ours is a financial arrangement, there is a small matter we need to discuss. While you were busy carrying on with the Bosom Twins, I was occupied doing a few calculations. Unfortunately, I confess that I am not as well-acquainted with the cost of travel in England as I had imagined myself to be. Therefore, we shall have to make adjustments to our plans. Going forward—”
“The Bosom Twins?”
“Those two young women you were flirting with on the coach.”
“I was not flirting.”
“Oh? What would you call it?”
“There isn’t much to say. Ours was a relationship of a regrettably fleeting nature. They giggled and flaunted their bosoms. I gazed on with appreciative male rapture. Alas, the sweet interlude ended and we were forced apart.”
Brianna bristled. The mocking humor in his tone was unmistakable. “Very clever, Mr. Brooks.”
He drew to a stop and propped one hip against a fence rail, bringing himself eye level with her. “I apologize if my behavior was less then appropriate, Mrs. Donnelly.” He gave a loose shrug. “It was just a bit of sport. Something to enliven an otherwise dull journey.”
Brianna gathered her thoughts. Obviously her escort was accustomed to being appreciated by women. Perhaps even adored. And why shouldn’t he be? He was devastatingly handsome. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d been graced with the kind of rugged male appeal that worked as an intoxicant on the female mind, withering away all customary restraint and good sense. So potent was the man’s breezy charm he was almost dangerous—a direct frontal assault on a woman good sense. His very presence was utterly disarming.
Fortunately for her, however, she was made of stronger stuff than other females.
“You shouldn’t have encouraged them,” she persisted. “It’s in rather poor taste to trifle with the virtue of innocent young women.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “Virtue? Innocent? Those two? I can assure you there’s not a farmer’s son within fifty miles of here that’s not intimately acquainted with that pair.”
She felt the heat of embarrassment flush her cheeks, but she didn’t back down. “You enjoyed their attention.”
Another shrug. “I’m a man.”
“My point exactly. That’s the problem.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen dozens like you in Canton. Randy young English lords are not known for keeping their peckers tightly buttoned up and properly put away. Particularly when they’ve landed in an exotic port and the consequences of their actions seem well…nonexistent.”
She’d shocked him. She could see that.
“Did you just say the word pecker?”
“You’ve never heard it before?”
“Of course I’ve heard it before. That’s not…” He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Mrs. Donnelly—”
“Forgive my boldness, but I am endeavoring to make a point.”
“By all means, then. Do proceed.” He held up his hand to catch a fat droplet of rain. “Preferably before the storm breaks and we are soaked to the skin.”
She brought up her chin and met his deep blue gaze. “If we are to travel together, you will have to behave yourself. From this point forward, I must insist you act the part of a perfect gentleman.”
He maintained a somber expression for two, perhaps three full seconds—for him, a Herculean feat, no doubt—then his cocky grin returned. “In that case, we are in grave trouble, indeed.”
“Mr. Brooks, this is no laughing matter.”
“Isn’t it?”
Brianna took a steadying breath and tried a different approach. “Given our current financial circumstances, for the duration of our journey I shall have to present myself as your wife.”
That wiped his smile away. In fact, his expression changed entirely as he adopted the sort of wary look one usually wore when checking to ascertain what sort of dreadful substance they’ve stepped in. Brianna tried not to take offense.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“That’s what I’ve been t
rying to tell you. I’ve made an unfortunate financial miscalculation. I simply can’t afford lodgings for two—not if we also want to eat and enjoy the luxury of two coach tickets to London, rather than walk the entire way.” She released a defeated sigh and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s simply no other solution. Henceforth, we shall have to travel as a married couple.”
Chapter Seven
“You can’t mean…”
Had the woman just said married? Married? Jonathon’s dismay must have shown on his face, for her dark eyes flashed with irritation.
“Do not flatter yourself, Mr. Brooks. That was not a proposal.”
“No?”
“No,” she repeated, emphasizing the word as though he was some kind of dullard. “It most certainly was not. Nor should you construe it as any kind of tawdry invitation. I’m simply referring to our lodging accommodations. That’s why I wanted to speak to you privately, before we registered as guests at the inn.”
“Very well. Go on.”
“The inn appears to be a respectable establishment. Therefore, it is safe to assume they will not rent a room to a man and woman who are not married. Hence the ruse. I can think of no other solution to our predicament. Unless..” She paused, gazing up at him hopefully, “Unless you might be amenable to accepting lodging with the livestock in the barn?”
He studied her face, searching for some telltale sign to indicate she was jesting. Instead, he read nothing but earnest expectation, as though the request was perfectly reasonable.
“You expect me to sleep in the barn. With the livestock.”
“Of course I don’t expect you to. But if your sense of chivalry demands—”
“Remarkably enough, my sense of chivalry pales at the suggestion of sharing a bed with the local dairy cows.”
“I see.” Her brow furrowed. “That’s unfortunate.” She pursed her lips and gave the matter further thought. “We might make a cozy bed for you within the coach…”
Jonathon felt his grip on sanity slipping. He was standing in a patch of mud in a dreary village in the middle of nowhere, accompanied by a slip of a woman (who apparently wasn’t actually a missionary at all, nor was she married), who prattled on about castles, peckers, and sleeping in livestock pens. In the past forty-eight hours he’d been drugged, robbed, and shot. He was determined to break off his relationship with Lila and seriously contemplating arresting his cousin. His shoulder was stiff, his head ached, and his back was sore from the damned coach.
Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Page 5