by Tanya Wilde
“It looks natural,” she murmured as she shifted positions, viewing herself from different angles.
It was hard to tell with only a candle to serve as light, but she could still distinguish a much darker tone in place of her blond hair.
Of course, it was frowned upon to stain your hair—or so Sally, a girl from a nearby parish, had once told her. Sally fancied black hair, and upon asking her father if she could color it, he had promptly burst into a fit of rage and shouted that he would disown her, that staining hair was worse than adultery. Coffee beans, on the other hand, weren’t permanent—a trick she learned from a novel.
Holly hoped she had done enough for it to look authentic. She remained skeptical that staining hair was worse than adultery, but she did not wish to unleash another whirlwind of trouble because of her hair.
But in this case, caution outweighed propriety.
Holly touched her new mop, shaking her head and watching the locks bounce on her shoulders. She quite liked her new length, though the color felt bizarre on her. It was odd but strangely reviving—a refreshing change to an otherwise dreary day.
She spared herself another quick glance. This new Holly could do anything she wished. Travel unchaperoned. Become a pirate. Be bold, be daring, and perhaps even kiss a gentleman. This new version of herself felt optimistically brave, as though she could accomplish anything.
She’d need to remember that for what was ahead of her.
After dispensing of the snipped hair, she settled beneath the covers and stretched out onto the mattress with a sigh of delight. Her eyes drifted closed. She might still get some rest before Warton came to wake her.
Then a new chapter of her life would begin.
Chapter 7
Holly sat opposite of Warton, her legs crossed tightly together. Having been awakened before dawn, she hadn’t gotten much sleep at all, especially as it had taken her a while to fall into slumber. Her sister’s visit and her impulsive transformation had been fresh on her mind, as had been worry over their journey. And due to being ushered out of the house half asleep, Holly hadn’t been given enough time to take care of her needs.
Needs that now moved her to pinch her lips together tightly.
Warton had yet to behold her new look since she kept it hidden beneath a bonnet. It did not escape her that wearing a bonnet defeated the purpose of her alteration. And had she thought about it at some length, she might have concluded that the simple solution would have been just to bring a bonnet.
Oh, well.
Lesson learned—do not make appearance-altering decisions when exhausted.
She cast a nervous glance at Warton, who stared out of the window in deep contemplation. What would he think of her latest fashion? Would he like it? Applaud her for her genius? Reprimand her for her lack of foresight?
He shifted his long legs, and Holly squirmed in her seat. She narrowed her gaze at the marquis, his eyes now shut, who was evidently unaware of her or her predicament. They had stopped only once, and it had been to change from his family-crested carriage to an unmarked coach. How unchivalrous of him not to even consider she might have needs, though at that time she hadn’t required any release.
Now, though exhausted from lack of rest, sleep was once again impossible. Indeed, it required all of her concentration just to keep her legs tightly crossed and to continually think of dessert. No, not dessert—desert. A dry, roasting desert.
But the mention of dessert had her mind flashing to wedding cake, which made her ponder weddings and then mull over the fact that she had jilted a man. The man Willow had married. No, best not to think about dessert or anything remotely related to sweets, churches, or gowns.
Desert.
No, that still sounded too much like dessert.
And her bladder was on fire.
Think of something else.
But it was not that easy, for it had reached a point where all she could think about was her burning need to pee. And as there was no other way to postpone her need, the best thing to do was think of ways to capture Warton’s attention.
The man had thought of everything, had even packed articles of clothing from his sister’s closet for her, along with some books. And yet he appeared clueless about other, more basic needs.
Holly cleared her throat.
No response. Not even the twitch of an eye. Had she been too subtle? She shrugged and drove her boot into his lower limb, blinking innocently when his eyes shot open and pinned her in place.
“How far until we reach the next stop?” she asked.
“Another two hours.” He shut his eyes again.
Two hours? She’d have disgraced herself long before then. “And your estimation is certain?”
His brows creased, but his eyes did not open again. “Give or take.”
So, in other words, it could still be another two and a half hours. Or three hours. Perhaps even four. Maybe it might be a bit less, but somehow, given her recent luck, Holly thought that doubtful.
She slid her gaze down to the book on her lap, her knuckles white from clutching the spine. She liked reading well enough, but only passages of novels, never the complete story. She preferred to absorb just the right amount of narrative and then let her imagination run wild with the rest.
She flipped the book open to the middle. Perhaps reading would take her mind off the burning sensation of holding her bladder.
A woman alone on the streets of London at this hour . . .
That was how far she got. Her gaze remained stubbornly fixed upon that half of the sentence.
“Miss Middleton, would you stop fidgeting? It is working on my nerves.”
Her head snapped up.
Warton’s eyes were riveted on her feet.
Brows drawing together, she dropped her gaze, and sure enough, her foot was rhythmically tapping on the floor.
Her foot stopped.
Warton closed his eyes again. Hers dropped back to the book.
“Miss Middleton!”
“I cannot help it!” she exclaimed when her foot started tapping on its own again. “It’s a means of distraction.”
“From what?” Turbulent eyes bore into her.
“I, er . . .”
His eyes lowered to her fingers, fidgeting with the pages of the book, and then to her tapping feet before lifting to lock with hers again.
“For Christ’s sake, spit it out.”
As in verbally inform him she needed to pee?
Certainly not.
But then Holly weighed her options. She could either deal with a bit of awkwardness or endure the wretched blazing of her insides—for two more hours.
Urgh.
She drew in a deep breath, then released it. “Nature calls,” she said, biting down on her lower lip. “Or rather it’s not calling anymore but demanding alleviation.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “Nature is demanding what?”
“You know,” she motioned with her hands to her private parts. “I need to relieve myself.”
His gaze followed the motion of her hands, and a flush of red broke out on his skin. “What exactly are you proposing, Miss Middleton?”
Holly almost released a sigh of exasperation. Men could be so dense at times. What did he imagine she was proposing?
“Well, to stop this coach, for one. Then I shall do the rest.”
He stared at her, unblinking.
“It’s quite simple, really. When one consumes an excessive amount of fluids, your body expels those liquids—”
“I get the point,” he ground out, teeth clenched.
She stared at him expectantly.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Holly rolled her eyes.
Warton looked ready to object—he always looked ready to object—but with a sigh of resignation, he shifted his large body and reached out to rap on the roof.
It felt as if it took forever for the coach to lurch to a halt, and Holly wasted no time in scrambling from her seat before Warton c
ould even lift a finger.
He followed her out.
“What are you doing?” She turned to stare at him, perplexed.
“I’m standing guard while you . . . while you go about your business.”
Holly shot him a slightly amused, somewhat aghast look. He stood before her, a veritable mountain in size, looking down at her with somber eyes. He was serious.
“That is not necessary.”
“And what if you are accosted?”
“By what? A hedgehog?”
His gaze held hers, green and unwavering.
“We are in the middle of nowhere,” Holly pointed out.
“Nowhere is somewhere, and what if a wild animal attacks you?”
Holly turned and surveyed the surroundings. There was nothing but landscape for miles, with a few trees scattered here and there.
“I am certain I can manage to avoid any rabid ponies and the occasional feral hare.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I beg to differ. My witticism is one of my finest qualities.”
“Miss Middleton,” he said impatiently. “I am not debating the issue with you. Either do your business and accept I will stand guard against feral hares and rabid ponies, or get back in the carriage.”
Holly ground her teeth together and glared up at him. “I have lived in the country my entire life! This is hardly the wilds of Africa.”
“It’s still dangerous.”
“What if you wait here and I don’t venture too far,” she motioned to the nearest cluster of trees. “I’ll be just over there.”
His gaze left hers to travel over the area she had pointed out.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s still too far. If anything happened, I might not get to you in time.”
“It’s not that far.”
“You will not venture into grazing land unescorted,” he persisted stubbornly.
Holly could see there was indeed no use in arguing over the matter. Warton had made up his mind. It was stamped all over his obstinate features. Stubborn man.
“Fine.” She threw her hands in the air.
Just fine.
Warton arched a brow, presumably at her tone or her lack of manners, but Holly was past caring what he thought. If she did not relieve her bladder soon, she would embarrass herself more than she would by attempting to defeat a headstrong ox in a battle of wills.
Lifting her hem, she shot him a scathing look and set out on a path straight to the cluster of trees—which, she thought darkly, ought to still provide some measure of protection from his view.
Unfortunately, she had never been as aware of a man as she was at that precise moment, with Warton trailing behind her. It was easy enough to imagine the brisk wind whipping through his hair while his breeches tightened over his powerful legs as he strode after her.
Sweet mercy, she was such a lost cause.
Even the hairs on the back of her neck agreed, for they stood at attention while her stomach pulled together in a tight not. And her breath . . . it felt as though a vise had enveloped her lungs and gripped. Tight.
A few feet before the tree, she turned and leveled Warton with a stern look. He halted abruptly and gave a curt nod. This was as far as she would allow him to go.
***
Brahm closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. What the hell had gotten into him? Would it have killed him to be more delicate? He shook his head and followed Miss Middleton into the field. She was his charge. She had to understand that. The thought of her venturing too far away from him struck a protective chord inside him.
That said, he would be damned if any harm befell her on his watch. At the moment, she would just have to get over any of her fragile sensibilities on that matter. Of course, he’d put himself in this situation, but it was far too late to lament that fact. He’d get her to Dover, as promised, and then return to London.
Miss Middleton suddenly turned and shot him a withering look. One he understood. The soles of his boots drew to a halt on a muddy patch. He gave a curt nod. This was an acceptable distance.
“I will be behind that tree,” she said and pointed beyond her.
“Very well, I shall go no further.”
When she just remained rooted to the spot, watching him with a cool, reserved countenance, he sighed. “Is something amiss?”
“Will you turn around?”
“Why? You will be behind a tree.”
She cast him a beseeching look. “Will you just turn around?”
Those big blue eyes almost undid him.
“Please.”
Bloody hell.
Brahm turned around.
It was for prosperity, really. He would rather not travel the length of their journey with a sulky female.
The rustling of skirts jerked his attention back to his current situation. He willed his mind elsewhere, like the larger, more looming quandary of what to do once they reached the cottage. To stay with her was out of the question, but could he honestly leave her alone to fend for herself?
It seemed an impossible predicament, but his thoughts on a solution were put on hold when she suddenly marched past him, her back ramrod straight.
Brahm sighed.
He was an abrupt man—often to the point of being harsh. That he could not change. But it probably wouldn’t kill him to smile more—like she had suggested.
He said nothing as he entered the coach but remained deeply aware of her rigid composure. Should he apologize? Best not, he supposed, if he did not mean it. Women were like bloodhounds when it came to insincerity, and Miss Middleton was already giving him a cold, downright frosty shoulder.
But he had to say something.
If only to smooth away her puckered brows.
“I won the property in a card game,” he confessed, hoping to draw out conversation from her and clear the air between them.
“Really?” She gave him an arch look. “I never took you for the gambling sort.”
He widened his lips into a grin. With teeth. Toothy smiles were the most charming. Right? Her head cocked to the side, and his smile slipped.
“Are you well?”
Damnit.
“Fine,” he muttered. That was what he got for listening to a woman. After a moment, he said, “I am not usually the gambling sort.”
“But you provoke easily.”
He fought the urge to defend himself. But the she was right. “Turns out I am excellent at cards.”
If Miss Middleton was taken aback before, she was thoroughly astonished now.
Brahm felt a slither of annoyance at her reaction. He was a man. Not a damn saint. If he wanted to gamble, he gambled. And he was good at it. He did other things as well—like aid a young woman after she jilted her intended, for example.
“You find that hard to believe?”
“What I find hard to imagine is you keeping your face inscrutable throughout an entire card game.”
He stared at her, his face as blank as a sheet of paper.
“Point taken,” she murmured, bemused.
Again Brahm experienced the same overpowering awareness he had felt when he had first seen her at the wedding. Her eyes, the color of a bright summer sky, flashed with laughter, and at that moment something about her made him want to smile.
An honest-to-goodness smile.
“Will you teach me how to win at poker?”
Her unexpected question brought a sudden laugh from him. “You would be terrible at it, Miss Middleton.”
“I would not!”
A lazy smile touched his lips. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. You, my dear, give too much away with all the blushing you do.”
“And who’s to say my blushing would not put me at a distinct advantage? I might excel at the game because of it.”
“All the more reason not to teach you, then.”
“Do you think less of me because I jilted a fellow nobleman?”
It was an even more unexpected question than the last.
Their gazes locked, and Brahm glimpsed nothing but profound curiosity. Conversing with Miss Middleton was like playing a guessing game.
But was that not the bloody question? Did he think less of her for her actions towards St. Ives?
No, dammit.
He knew he thought too damn highly of her. The mischief sparkling in her eyes, her rosy blushes, and her graceful elegance—altogether it called to him. She possessed a gentility that he lacked. And though prone to trouble and wild fancies, she was also gracious. It was damn confounding—this connection that drew him to her. It was more profound than anything he had ever felt, and she—well, she appeared oblivious to it.
But all the better. Brahm did not want her to know just how much he enjoyed her company. That could prove disastrous. The chit had a steep path ahead of her with the scandal currently rocking the London gossip sheets.
“I hardly see why it should matter since I am escorting you to safety—which, to some degree, makes me an accomplice.”
“Which makes us friends, of sorts.”
“A favorable opinion can be formed from a distance. Friendship, on the other hand, starts by finding common ground.”
“We have loads in common.”
“Oh?” he asked, curious.
“Your sister, for one,” she murmured offhandedly.
“Since my sister is not my friend, she does not count. Besides, acquaintanceships do not prove common ground.”
“Why ever not?” she insisted and then scrunched her brows in thought. “Common ground . . . well, I’m sure we have both planted a kiss on another’s lips before.”
Brahm swallowed his stunned surprise. Then something wild and beastly gripped his insides. “Who the hell kissed you?”
She took no offense at his growl and only tapped a finger to her chin as if trying to recall. Brahm, battling to calm his sudden reaction, clamped his jaw shut. He did not like this response, yet he found himself fiercely curious to the answer.
What man would steal a kiss from the youngest Middleton?
“Rupert Wright.”
“I cannot say that I know him,” Brahm muttered, the bitterness hard to conceal.