by Tanya Wilde
She harrumphed. “Of course not. He’s a young shoemaker that lives in a small village not far from our estate.”
A shoemaker? His gut settled.
“Who was your first kiss?” she asked, smiling smartly up at him.
“Ladies do not ask such things of a man.”
“Was your first kiss with a boy, then? I’ve heard tales that boys practice on each other. Is that why you are ashamed to tell me?”
“Bloody hell,” Brahm muttered, aghast that she would imagine such a thing. Then he glimpsed the laughter in her eyes. “No, Miss Middleton, I most certainly did not kiss a boy. If you must know, it was my sister’s maid.”
“How shockingly tedious! Did Lady Josephine ever discover what you had done?”
“No.”
Kissing was not a topic Brahm wished to pursue. Unfortunately, Miss Middleton thought otherwise. In fact, she went on to list all the boys she had kissed in her youth. By the time she reached Tom Hathaway, Brahm had counted at least eleven names.
“Bloody hell, woman,” he interrupted her chatting. “Did you kiss the entire village?”
“Of course not! I did not kiss . . .” and then she proceeded to list the names of all the boys she hadn’t kissed. The list was quite extensive, much more so than the list she had kissed, which redeemed her somewhat. It did not, however, stop the sudden urge within him to throw a punch at every boy that brushed his lips against hers.
“. . . but I did kiss a gypsy boy once.”
That caught his attention. “You kissed a gypsy?”
She nodded—a bit too eagerly for his taste—her features bright with delight.
“There was a gypsy camp on our property one year. They gave us no trouble, so father allowed them to remain until they were ready to move on. It was the last kiss I received and the only one,” she leaned forward to whisper the last part, an impish glint entering her eyes, causing everything deep inside him to still, “for which he used more than his lips.”
Christ.
“I see you possessed no care for your well-being as a young woman.” He knew he sounded more peevish than necessary. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“On the contrary, I was always heedful to never allow more liberties. And I learned quite early on that no matter how many boys you kiss, it does not yield a prince.”
“You kissed all those boys in the hope they would transform into royalty? Magically?”
“Do not be absurd. I kissed them because I wanted to discover my one true love.”
Bloody hell.
“That is insanity. A kiss is a kiss. It does not reveal anything except whether it is a good kiss or a bad kiss.”
“I do not believe that.”
“What you believe, Miss Middleton, is astonishing. Did you ever kiss St. Ives?”
She shook her head. “Perhaps if I had, I would never have agreed to his proposal.”
“You would have known he was not your true love, you mean?”
“Quite correct.”
Brahm studied her through hooded eyes. The innocence of her belief marveled him. For her, life was quite simple. Kiss the right man and you would discover your prince. Hell, who was he to dissuade her from that belief, however preposterous? It seemed almost a crime to strip her of such innocence.
But how many more men would she kiss in her quest to find love? The unbidden question struck suddenly, turning his mood dark and grim.
“Why did you not kiss St. Ives?” Brahm asked, his voice more savage than he intended.
She shrugged. “We were never unchaperoned.”
Their gazes met and held. Her words wreaked havoc in his mind, and Brahm had to remind himself of his role as guardian. Guardians did not fantasize about their charges, especially about kissing them.
He grunted, looking away from her to stare out of the window. Still, thoughts of what it would feel like to feather his lips across Holly Middleton’s filled his mind. And, in pondering that, he mused on her wild belief that a kiss could inform a couple about whether they belonged together.
But if he ever did kiss her, would he know?
Chapter 8
They arrived at a lovely roadside inn three hours later. Holly’s relief was so great that she sagged against the upholstery. It had been the longest three hours of her life, and that was saying much. Warton had closed his eyes shortly after their fascinating discussion on common ground. But while he had no more interest in the topic, her curiosity had only piqued.
Why hadn’t she kissed the duke?
If she had, she might have discovered sooner that his interest in her was nothing but balderdash. It seemed so much could have been avoided with a simple peck on the lips.
Three hours of turning one missed kissed over in her mind. One hundred and eighty minutes of dreaming up every possible outcome if she had brushed her lips against St. Ives’s.
She sent Warton a glance from beneath her lashes. His features were a mask of aloofness, his powerful shoulders stiff. What would he do if she leaned over and smoothed away the hard lines of his face? The gesture would be beyond intimate.
Almost like kissing.
Then, for no apparent reason, the temperature in the carriage soared, and Holly swore she could feel little flames dancing across her skin.
She waited for him to exit the carriage before furiously fanning herself with her hand. All of a sudden, her senses were filled with him: his scent, his presence, and the brief brush of his leg against hers when he rose from his seat.
Averting her gaze away from his broad back as he climbed down, she inhaled a deep breath.
Lord, what was wrong with her?
“We will remain here for the night,” he muttered, holding out his hand.
“Marvelous!” She would finally escape the tight confines of the carriage and the broodingly handsome beast that was Warton.
Two brows rose at her exclamation.
“What? You cannot expect me to believe that you are not as stiff as I,” she replied.
An odd expression crossed his face, and he cleared his throat. “Miss Middleton, trust me, you are nowhere near as . . . uncomfortable as I.”
“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.”
“Please do.” His gloved fingers clasped hers and he assisted her from the coach. “Keep your head down and follow closely.”
The inn was bustling with activity as they entered, which promptly came to a stop when Warton opened his mouth to speak. It was a deep baritone that commanded attention and, more often than not, from what she could recall, made lesser people quake in their boots with its ferocity.
“We would like to book a room,” his voice rocketed through the entrance.
Holly shot him a pained look. He had yet to let go of her hand.
All eyes turned to them.
“Must you be so loud?” she murmured.
Several guests shot her pitying looks, and a moment later a tall, lanky innkeeper rushed to greet them.
Brahm’s brows knit together. “Is there something wrong with the way I talk?”
“Of course not, but you are drawing attention to us.”
“Well, I—”
His retort was interrupted by the innkeeper. “Now then, how may I be of service?”
Holly slipped on a charming smile and stepped forward, uncertain what the behemoth by her side would boom next. “My husband, Mr. Wart—” the grip on her hand tightened, “and I, would like a room for the night?”
Beside her, Warton stiffened.
“Certainly, Mrs. Wart,” the innkeeper said, much more cheerfully now that he was not the recipient of Warton’s dark looks.
Those turbulent eyes were solely directed at her.
Luckily, Holly considered herself a master at ignoring narrow-eyed looks and dark scowls.
She beamed up at the innkeeper, a sunny grin that he reciprocated. She also noted there was no wedding band on his finger. Indeed, the man was quite passable, with kind brown eyes that matched the color
of his hair. Holly estimated him to be in his early thirties.
An innkeeper’s wife.
That was a notion she’d never before considered.
Unable to help herself, Holly winked at the man.
Warton stepped forward, partially concealing her body, and produced a deep rumble from his chest, almost like a growl.
Lord, but the man’s temper flared easily!
“Is something amiss?” she asked sweetly, blinking innocently up at him.
“No,” he ground out.
But clearly it was something, or else he would not have responded through gritted teeth. However, Holly decided it’d be best not to aggravate him further. Once they were in the privacy of their room, he would undoubtedly voice his grievances.
And just as she predicted, once they were alone in their chamber, Warton’s temper lit up like fireworks. He whirled on her, bestowing upon her his full, icy glare. The room vibrated with tension.
“What the devil were you thinking?”
She flinched at the instant crack of his voice. “Whatever did I do wrong?”
“Husband and wife? Mr. and Mrs. Wart?”
Holly reeled backward, the label catching her off guard. Or perhaps it was the image that his words produced: them, married. She forced herself to push away the thought.
“That is what has your knickers in a twist? To be fair, you did cut me off at Wart.”
“You should not have introduced us as husband and wife in the first place,” he growled.
“It seemed the most logical solution since the duke’s men are looking for an unaccompanied female, not a married one.”
He loomed over her. “That is not the point.”
Holly planted her hands on her hips. “Then what is?”
“We must now stay in the same room, whereas I planned on procuring us two separate chambers.”
“And what if they didn’t have an additional room to spare?” Holly challenged—but mostly to cover the fact that she was starting to panic because she hadn’t considered that.
“That is something we will never know, Miss Middleton. But we do know that my wife just made me the laughing stock of the entire establishment.”
“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed to slits, and Holly resisted the urge to fan her face again.
“Did you not just bat your pretty eyelashes at the innkeeper?”
“Do not be outrageous. I only winked at him.”
Warton pushed his fingers through his hair. As per usual, his eyes were stormy as they stared down at her. But they didn’t hold the kind of storm that alarmed Holly. No, they held the kind she wanted to get swept up into.
“That is even worse. Especially combined with your voice, which had gone all syrupy!” he accused.
“Can one even refer to a voice as syrupy?” she ventured. “Besides, a friendly smile hardly makes you a laughingstock, and even if it did, it would be Mr. Wart that they would tease.”
“Tease? I’ll be the object of ridicule.”
“Do not be so dramatic,” Holly said, lifting one brow. “And what would you have told the innkeeper?”
“That you are my sister.”
Sister?
Her hand lifted to clutch her heart. It was too much. Holly burst into laughter.
“What is so funny?” Warton demanded.
On seeing his affronted expression, she fought to control her giggles all over again. After a minute, she took a deep breath and wiped away a tear in the corner of her eye.
“We look nothing alike!” She motioned with her hand between them, drawing attention to their difference in height and coloring.
“For all they know, you are my half sister.”
“Forgive me,” Holly said, still rather amused. “I did not mean to laugh at your expense. I promise I shall keep my lips firmly shut at our next stop.”
“I will have your word.”
“And you have it.”
He looked so relieved, she smothered another laugh. Then the words were out before she cared to stop them. “Though I ought to remind you that if we sleep in separate chambers, I am more likely to be stolen away by the duke’s men without you to aid me.”
“St. Ives is a man, not a blasted king; he does not command an army.”
King or not, the duke was dangerous.
But so was staying in the same room with Warton. Holly eyed the four-poster bed with a slight frown. Now that she had a good look at the chamber it did seem rather small and confined. Just like the carriage from which she had desired a respite.
She had wanted a respite, hadn’t she? Then why was she looking for ways to be in another small chamber with Warton at their next stop? Why did her heart swell in protest at being separated by two bedchambers?
In all honesty, Holly did not wish to be separated from him. She enjoyed his emerald eyes burning into her and delighted in his protective air. Perhaps a little too much.
And that was a problem. A rather large one.
She stole a glance at Warton, then the bed, and then the small, uncomfortable-looking chair—and then again at Warton.
He was a big man. He took up most of the space with his tall frame and broad shoulders. She ought to sleep in the chair. It would not bother her as much as it would him. Or maybe it would bother her more, being in the best position to watch him sleep.
Oh, do get a grip on yourself, Holly!
She removed her cap and tossed it onto the chair. A deep throaty curse bounced off the walls of the room.
Holly whirled to face Warton, whose eyes were fixed on her head.
“What the devil did you do to your hair?” he barked, the echo of his voice vibrating off the windows.
Her brows drew together in a frown. Warton appeared horrified by her new look.
“You do not like my new style?” Her fingers lifted to touch her shorter crop before she flipped her head from side to side, her locks bobbing about her until it settled around her face in a tousled mess.
She frowned when Warton made a stifled sound.
“You stained your hair.”
“It’s not that bad,” Holly muttered.
“When did you get the bloody time to do that?”
“After my sister came to call. It’s just coffee. It will wash out after a week or so.”
“It will not bloody well grow back in that time!” He cast another glance at her head. “What the devil possessed you to chop off your hair?”
“I quite like my hair this length.”
“It’s not even the same length everywhere.”
Holly’s face flooded with color. “It’s still my hair, uneven though it is.”
He looked as though he was tempted to say more, but instead he let out another humph and stomped from the room.
Holly stared at the space that only moments ago Warton occupied. Goodness, but the man was in a mood. There was nothing she could do about her hair now—surely he knew that—except wait until someone more talented could cut it properly.
It still did not give the man an excuse to insult her. He would not be the one forced to marry Lord Jonathan if they were caught.
She tore her gaze away from the closed door, glanced between the bed and the shabby chair, and sighed. This was going to be a long night indeed.
***
Brahm tensed as another small moan came from the bed, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. He sat cramped in the wretched old chair, which was barely tolerable and hard as a rock, listening to Miss Middleton’s soft sleeping noises. Her scent filled the entire room, intoxicating him, tempting him.
He shifted, bloody uncomfortable, for the thousandth time.
He reminded himself that he was in this chair because he’d refused Miss Middleton’s offer to take the bed, even though she’d insisted on it, using her logic about his size versus her own, which had only caused him to think about their sizes fitting together in the bed. Looking at it, they could fit together on
the bed—
Damnation!
How the hell had he so utterly lost control over his . . . control? And speaking of Hell, its pit of flames might be preferable to this torture. In fact, it was here, sitting in a chair at the bedside of Holly Middleton, where he was sure he was being punished for past sins. Why else would the devil be poking him with a burning itch to do a number of things that he could not do? Fluctuating between the urge to take her over his knee for recklessly claiming them husband and wife and the incomprehensible need to kiss her senseless for doing so—he was being tortured by the Devil himself.
Brahm rubbed a hand over his face.
He felt disorientated—crazed, even. He had been hurled into a world of paradox: the blood in his veins ran cold with an aversion to the Middleton chits’ infamously silly and endlessly troublemaking ways, yet simultaneously, his insatiable hunger for the youngest Middleton heated his blood. It was nonsensical.
Could it be because Miss Middleton was not behaving silly anymore? Or because his behavior suspiciously matched her own now? Brahm suspected the latter, since he hardly recognized himself in the role he had impulsively taken on the day before.
He could only hope that once he had deposited her at their destination, everything would return to order.
But what if it didn’t?
Denial was futile. With his offer to escort her to safety, to aid in her escape from the wild winds of scandal and possibly the duke as well, Brahm had set into motion events that might eventually alter his very path in life—if that alteration hadn’t begun already.
An uneasy feeling settled within him, as if a rock had been hurled down to the pit of his stomach.
With a low groan, he ran his hands through his hair and faced the truth: he desired Holly Middleton, which meant his life would never be normal again.
Brahm sighed wearily and gazed longingly at the empty space beside her on the bed. There wasn’t much of it, as her limbs took up all but a small margin of the mattress, but still, it was there.
A soft bed as opposed to an uncompromising chair. They were already sleeping in the same room, so why not the same bed? But that would be like saying that because at present Miss Middleton was ruined, why not kiss her?
Just one.