Although she’d thought the question perfectly innocent, Mr. Brooks regarded her warily. “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, anything,” she replied. “He must be very generous to have given you such fine clothing to wear, even if they were cast-offs. Is he wealthy?”
“Exceedingly so. Far too wealthy for his own good.”
“So he’s wealthy and generous,” she said.
His lips quirked. “Handsome, too. Cultured, sophisticated, as well as having excellent taste, a superior wit, and uncommon intelligence.”
“My. He sounds like a remarkable man. Is he kind?”
“Kind? Hmm. What an interesting question. I’d never considered that.”
“Well-liked, then?”
A rueful smirk curved his lips as he flexed his shoulder. “Apparently not as well-liked as he believed.”
“And what does he do?”
“Do?”
She paused in the act of applying a fresh bandage to his skin. Her lips were only inches from his. Her hands rested on his bare skin. His eyes were a deep, fathomless blue, mesmerizing. She licked her suddenly parched lips and forced herself to continue, “Your wealthy, handsome, generous, cultured, sophisticated, intelligent, witty employer. What does he do?”
“Oh.” It took him a moment to pull his thoughts back to their conversation. “He manages his lands and estates, monitors his investments. He’s titled. A viscount.”
She caught her breath and she ceased her ministrations. “A viscount? Truly? Does he live in a castle? Like The Prince of Thorncastle?”
He smiled. “No. There are few castles in London.”
“None?”
“Well, there’s Windsor Castle, I suppose. But it’s a day’s ride—”
“So you don’t live in a castle?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a very nice home. Splendid, you might say. One of the finest in London.”
“I’m sure it is,” she soothed, hearing the affront in his voice. Having finished her task, she gave his shoulder a light pat. Then she stood and turned away, muttering beneath her breath, “Still, it’s not a castle, is it?”
* * *
Two hours later, Brianna added another log to the fire. She rinsed the kettle. Wiped the table clean. Checked her valise. Brushed the dirt smudges from her boots. Fretted with the lock on the door.
From across the room, Mr. Brooks heaved a dramatic sigh. “Enough.” He lifted one side of the quilt. “Get in here.”
She turned, studying him in startled surprise. “Am I bothering you?”
“Your infernal puttering is bothering me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to sleep, and I won’t be able to if I think you’ve decided to curl up in a tiny, freezing-cold ball on a stone hearth, that’s why.”
“I don’t know why it should matter to you where I sleep.”
“How will I protect you if you’re all the way across the room?”
“Protect me?” She hadn’t expected that. “Protect me from what?”
Another sigh. “Wolves.”
She balled fists on her hips. “We’ve already established there aren’t any wolves.”
“Right, then. Thieves.”
Brianna let out a dismissive breath. “Nothing I haven’t faced before.”
“You’ve faced thieves?”
“Running a pub in Canton? With a blind man counting the coins? Yes, I’ve faced thieves, and dealt with them quite handily, I can assure you.”
A pause. “Remarkable.”
He leveraged himself up on his elbow and looked at her. The bed sheet fell away, revealing his bare chest and arms. He might be injured, but he was hardly incapacitated. She thought of the effortless way he had swung her valise up on his shoulder as he’d bounded up the stairs to their room. Jonathon Brooks was a lean mass of muscles from head to toe. What if the rest of him were naked as well? What if—
“Your virtue is safe,” he promised, reading her thoughts with alarming accuracy.
“Because you’re a gentleman?”
“Because I’m exhausted.”
“You won’t try anything untoward?” she pressed. Since she couldn’t entirely trust herself, she had no choice but to trust him. “I have your word as a gentleman’s valet?”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “Yes. As a gentleman’s valet, I give you my word.”
She battled a ridiculous surge of disappointment and moved toward him. “Close your eyes,” she commanded imperiously. He sighed, but obeyed, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. She unbelted her dressing robe, folded it, and placed it at the foot of the bed. Then she slipped in beside him and drew the bedding up to her chin.
The linens were as crisp and fresh as Mrs. Wintress had promised. Brianna’s body sank into the mattress. Oh, heavenly bliss. A real bed. A glorious, honest-to-goodness bed. Not like the thin cots in the church basement, or the swaying hammocks aboard ship. She let out a contented sigh and snuggled deeper into the blankets.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
She could hear the amusement in his voice.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Comfortable?”
She nodded, then belatedly realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”
“Feel safe?”
Safe. She couldn’t remember the last time she truly felt safe. Deep down safe, not just relieved to have made it through another day. His presence beside her—his hard male body throwing off heat like a furnace—was entirely improper. She should have felt vulnerable. Embarrassed. But she didn’t feel any of those things. “Yes,” she admitted, giving voice to the confusing state of her emotions, “I do feel safe.”
Silence, thick and heavy, resonated between them. The storm had finally passed. She scanned the ceiling. Tiny nail heads in the ceiling rafters glistened in the moonlight like stars.
She wished she was tired, that she could simply close her eyes and go to sleep. She wanted to, she truly did. Instead, nervous excitement bubbled up within her. Her mind raced as her thoughts whirled in a thousand different directions.
“How far are we from London?” she asked.
“Days. Probably four, maybe five.”
“Are you anxious to be home?”
She sensed him stiffen beside her, once again inexplicably tensing at what she considered to be a perfectly innocuous question.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s a matter I need to settle.”
Brianna let the subject drop.
Something about the darkness of the room, combined with the intimacy of sharing a bed, seemed to invoke a desire to make a confession. Softly she said, “There was a man on the clipper from Canton who said he wanted to marry me.”
Mr. Brooks hesitated, and she could almost feel him weighing his response. “I take it you didn’t want to marry him.”
“No.” Brianna thought for a moment. “Peter Van deVeer was his name. He had money, power, influence—everything my family lacked. He used to call me his little lost lamb, daughter of the Orient. He kissed me once, but I didn’t like it.” She rolled onto her side and propped her chin on her hand. “Do you remember that word?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “What word?”
“The word I shouldn’t have said? The word Sister Mary Louise would have been horrified if she’d heard me use it.”
He frowned. “Pecker?”
“Yes, that one.”
His eyelids drooped closed. “Hmmm. What about it?” His voice was deep and husky.
“Do you know what I used to call Peter, beneath my breath, when no one was listening?”
“What?” The word was a drowsy whisper.
“Peter the Peckerhead.”
No response. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then she saw his mouth split open into a wide grin. Impossibly straight teeth glistened white in the moonlight, bracketed by twin dimples. He wrapped his arm around her and nestled her in the cr
ook of his shoulder. She fit there perfectly—as though God had designed her for that precise spot. He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze.
“Goodnight, angel.”
Chapter Nine
Jonathon woke to a soft, feminine scent drifting through the air. He took a deep breath and dragged it into his lungs the way a man dying of thirst would gulp water. An amazing scent. Lavender talc, mixed with some soft, earthy spice he couldn’t name. But he knew the fragrance. The intoxicating scent of Mrs. Donnelly. His cock roused awake before he did, springing to life with the rigid attention and fervent zeal of a military man answering a bugle’s call. Ready for action. Send him in.
With his eyes still closed, Jonathon brushed his hand beneath the bedcovers, seeking her. He would not seduce her. He just needed one quick, discreet touch to see if the woman’s skin truly was as velvety as it appeared. He reached out and felt… Nothing. The sheets were still warm from the heat of her body, the mattress still indented from her slight weight, but Mrs. Donnelly was gone.
Bloody hell. Frustration and unanswered need rose within him. She wasn’t even in the bed. Just the scent of the woman was enough to make him hard. It made no sense. He hadn’t even touched her. Not so much as a kiss. Not even an accidental brush of his fingers across her breasts. No. His actions been despicably honorable.
Jonathon was a man who preferred risk to caution, action to inaction, sex over romance. But last night had been different. Despite his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to immediately fall asleep. The feel of Mrs. Donnelly’s body pressed up against his invoked within him an unexpected sensation of satisfaction. Once she’d drifted off, the steady rhythm of her breathing had acted as a balm on his soul. He’d been content to simply snuggle her. Cuddle her.
Good lord, if his friends back in London heard about it, he’d be laughed out of his clubs.
She’d said she felt safe with him, and he’d damned well wanted to prove himself worthy of her trust. Worse than that, he wanted to protect her. Slay the proverbial wolves at the door—wolves they’d firmly established didn’t exist, at least not in England. But if they did exist, he would slay them. Just for her.
Ridiculous. He threw back the covers and stood, frowning as he surveyed the room. The fire had gone out. There was no servant to bring him tea and toast. No valet to offer a shave, polish his boots, and set out a suit of clean, freshly pressed clothing. How positively primitive. Well, perhaps it was just as well that the water in the washbasin was cold. He doused himself thoroughly. The icy bath had the desired effect on his arousal and he was able to dress and venture downstairs without a telltale bulge in his trousers.
The inn was deserted. Mrs. Wintress and the two servant girls from the previous evening were nowhere to be found. Even the other coach passengers—who Jonathon expected to find eating their breakfasts—had vanished. His heart skipped a beat and his chest tightened. Mrs. Donnelly? For one anxious second he imagined she’d left without him.
Then a movement out-of-doors caught his eye. She was there, in the rear courtyard. Relief coursed through him. Without stopping to examine his reaction, he stepped outside to join her.
The day was crystalline, flooded with brilliant early autumn sunshine. The dreary on-again, off-again rain that had plagued them the previous day had cleared. A sapphire sky hung in its place. In the distance, beyond the red washed barns, picket fences, and church spires, the hills were dotted with sheep, their wool as thick, white, and fluffy as the clouds that dotted the sky. A crisp breeze blew, carrying with it the earthy scent of burning leaves. He heard the echoes of dogs barking, children laughing, the steady pounding of a blacksmith at work.
Jonathon stopped and stared. He didn’t like the country. Never had. Too dull and provincial. In his estimation, nothing could match the vibrancy and excitement London offered. But damned if this wasn’t lovely.
And speaking of lovely—Mrs. Donnelly was occupied hanging sheets on a line.
She was dressed in a modest gown of dark green wool, over which she wore a white cotton apron. She hadn’t yet donned her bonnet, nor had she tucked her hair into the tight bun he’d grown accustomed to seeing. Instead, she wore it pulled back from her face in some sort of tortoise shell clip. It cascaded down her back in long, loose curls. Perhaps it was just the brilliance of the day that heightened the highlights in her hair, but at that moment, her dark brown tresses shimmered with bold streaks of rich, burnished copper.
He stood and stared, gaping like a schoolboy in the throes of his first crush. She was just a woman, he told himself. Like any other woman. But differently lit.
As though feeling his gaze, she turned. She sent him a smile of such radiant warmth he was tempted to drag her back upstairs and put their bed to its proper use. Chivalry and gentlemanly restraint be damned.
“Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Your hair is red,” he returned. His words came out as an accusation.
She lifted her hand to smooth her hair. “Not really. Only when the sun hits it.”
“The color of cinnamon.”
She gave a small shrug.
Not good enough. He wanted an explanation. And not only for her hair. Everything about the woman demanded an explanation Why the mere scent of her skin turned his cock hard as oak. Why watching her eat, the simple act of buttering a slice of bread and sliding it between her lips, could make him fantasize about those lips of hers licking him all over. But then, when he had her in his bed and seduction should have been a matter of course, he’d been content to simply lay with her beside him and listen to her breathe.
None of it made sense. How could a blind man’s wife—from a lowly pub in Canton, no less—turn up in his life and set his thoughts and habits spinning so thoroughly off-course?
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
He reached up and touched his cheek. He’d made use of the razor and strap he’d found in their room, but he’d thoroughly botched the job. He’d scraped his skin in some spots, nicked it in others. His own valet, George, performed the task every morning with such effortless precision, he’d assumed he could do it as well.
“No good?”
“Either you’re better at shaving your employer, or you hide all the mirrors in his home.”
He smiled at the jibe, then directed his focus toward the practical. The courtyard was quiet, empty except for the two of them.
“Where is everyone?”
“Mrs. Wintress and her staff went to town to do their marketing. The passengers we traveled with yesterday departed on this morning’s coach.”
“What? When?”
“Just after dawn. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you.”
He looked at her. “But…How are we to get to London? Do you mean to wait here until the next coach passes through the village? That could take weeks.”
“Not at all. I’ve checked my schedule. Another coach line passes just south of here. The fare is far less expensive than the one we took yesterday. And best of all, it’s only an hour or two away by foot.” She smiled. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”
“Walk?”
“Not all the way to London. Just to the next coach stop.” His dismay must have shown on his face, for her gaze narrowed. “Mr. Brooks, you may be accustomed to traveling with your wealthy, kind, intelligent viscount,” she bit out the word as though it were a condemnation, “but today you are traveling with a woman whose funds are limited. Last night we did it your way. Today we do it my way.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ve slept through breakfast, but you’ll be happy to know I’ve bartered a few simple chores in return for our lunch. Mrs. Wintress was very accommodating. Once we’ve finished, we can be on our way.”
“Chores?” he repeated.
She nodded and motioned to the basket at her feet. Without thinking, he passed her the wet items of laundry and she spread them on the line to dry. “I’ve almost finished with th
e washing. I told Mrs. Wintress you were a gentleman’s valet, but she didn’t have any pressing or mending to do.”
Thank god. He’d never held a needle in his life, and as for pressing, he’d likely burn a hole through any garment he was given, if not set the whole inn on fire.
“…so your first duty will be to gather the eggs.”
“Eggs?”
She paused in the act of spreading a bed sheet across the line. She planted her hands on her hips and arched one dark brow. “Are you doing that deliberately?”
No. He was not deliberately behaving like an idiot. It was happening naturally. He cleared his throat and looked around the yard. “Where do I begin?” Very good. A complete sentence. Certainly that was a step in the right direction.
“There.”
He stopped cold, staring at the chicken coop. The dilapidated structure was dark, dirty, and cramped. The wire netting was stiff with molted feathers and foul debris, the nature of which he didn’t want to guess at. Its offensive odor carried all the way to where he stood..
“You are familiar with chickens, aren’t you?” she pressed.
“Of course. I prefer them properly stewed and served with gravy.”
“Ah.” A pause, then, “But you’ve never been at the business end of one before.”
He drew himself up. “Hardly.”
“Well. This should be interesting.” Her lips quirked, but her tone remained brisk and business-like. “Come, then. Let’s get at it.”
She turned and strode toward the coop. She slipped inside, leaving him little choice but to follow. He had to duck to get inside. Once there, alarmed clucking and a dank stench greeted him. He peered through the gloom, through the dusty, musty air, his gaze alighting on a row of sharp beaks and beady eyes. Razor-like talons glistened in the dim light.
Good lord.
“Go ahead,” Mrs. Donnelly urged, holding her apron aloft to form a makeshift basket.
He sized up the opposition. The hens sat brooding on their nests, watching him with suspicious eyes—with the exception of one nest, which was untended. He strode toward it. Two eggs, ready and waiting to be scooped up. He did so, victoriously dropping them into Mrs. Donnelly’s apron. “There. Done.”
Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) Page 8