by Cara Elliott
Their hands touched for a fleeting moment, sending a sweet curl of warmth through her tired body.
John downed it in several quick gulps. “Thank you,” he murmured, stepping aside to let the stablehands harness the fresh horses to their vehicle. “I am sorry to ask you to continue on without a longer stop here. I am sure you must be tired and famished. However, I should like to reach Odiham before we stop for the night.”
Olivia waited for the men to move away before replying. “First of all, sir, we need to establish some rules for this journey.”
“You dislike rules,” he quipped.
“Not when they serve a higher purpose,” she retorted. “My likes and dislikes aren’t important, Wrexham. Freeing Prescott is the only thing that matters. And so, if you wish to drive from here to Hades without pausing, you must do so without any thought to my creature comforts. Having accompanied my father on a very lengthy expedition into the wilds, I assure you that I am no stranger to traveling under primitive conditions.”
He shifted his stance, his face unreadable.
“I asked to be part of this, knowing full well what to expect.” That, Olivia admitted to herself, was perhaps not entirely true, but it was close enough. The earl’s real feelings about her presence were still impossible to gauge.
“There is a hamper of food under the seat,” she went on. “We can eat while we drive.”
A final jangling of brass and leather announced that the harnessing of the new team was finished. The horses stomped and snorted, their breath forming pale puffs of vapor against the thickening shadows. The earl turned abruptly and swung a boot up to the foot rail—he, too, appeared impatient to be off.
“Very well, I shall take you at your word,” he said, climbing up to his perch and gathering the reins. “But I warn you, the going may get a little rough.”
Rough.
Hours later, as she gingerly climbed down from the cabriolet, Olivia had to admit that the ruts of the shortcut to the Andover toll road were worse than any she had experienced in Albania. Her bottom was bruised, her bones were aching, her joints were stiff…
John steadied her stumble, saving her from pitching headfirst into a rather foul-looking pile of horse droppings.
“Come,” he murmured, taking a firm hold of her arm. “I shall rouse the proprietor and order up a hot meal.
She squinted at the darkened inn. “Never mind a meal. Let us hope they have an empty bed.” In truth, she was willing to tussle with the tavern cats for a spot on the rag rug by the hearth. Anything, as long as it was softer than oak planking and marginally warm.
“It’s important to eat,” insisted John. “We must keep our strength up.”
Too tired to argue, Olivia let herself be led to the front door.
Summoned by the earl’s insistent knocking, the sleepy innkeeper undid the locks and escorted them to a small private parlor adjacent to the empty tap room. John accompanied him back into the corridor, then reappearing several minutes later. “Despite the hour, he has agreed to serve us. It will be simple fare—a venison stew and day-old bread—but hot and hearty.” He gave a rueful grimace. “Thank God for my sister’s purse. However, no amount of coins could change the fact that there is only one bedchamber available.”
“Mmmm?” Eyes half-closed, she hitched her chair a little closer to the hearth and held her hands out to the freshly stirred coals. “Sounds delightful.”
John raised a bemused brow.
“What?” mumbled Olivia, catching the tiny twitch.
“Nothing,” he replied, moving to her side and adding a few logs to the fire. A few skillful jabs of the poker quickly raised a cheerful blaze.
The heat chased the numbness from her hands and toes. “Oh, how blissfully divine.”
So was the hearty stew. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she quickly consumed a large helping, along with a glass of claret that John insisted she drink.
“Feeling better?”
“Much.” Heaving a sigh of contentment, Olivia was aware of a mellow drowsiness stealing over her. It felt as if unseen hands were wrapping all the little aches and pains in cotton wool…
Somehow she found herself floating up the narrow flight of stairs. A latch clicked, a door opened and then closed. The flame of the earl’s guttering candle illuminated a small room with a large featherbed, a narrow dressing table and washstand—with precious little space left over for the diminutive bureau wedged beside the dormer window.
“I apologize again for the accommodations—or lack thereof.” John set the light down. “I shall, of course, sleep on the floor.” Looking a little dubiously at what little there was of it, he added, “Or, if you prefer, I could seek a pallet of straw in the stable.”
One bedchamber. Olivia shook off her muzziness as his earlier words suddenly took on a clearer echo in her head.
“D-don’t be absurd,” she replied. “The bed is large enough for the two of us to sleep comfortably.”
He shook his head. “No, no, it would be awfully ungentlemanly to impose—”
Olivia cut him off with a chuffed sigh. “I appreciate your notions of nobility, Wrexham, but I thought we agreed to dispense with such things for the duration of this journey. You will be driving hard tomorrow, so it’s imperative that you get some proper rest. If anyone should sleep on the floor it is I.” She rubbed at the crick in her neck. “Although since I fully intend to spell you at the ribbons, I wouldn’t mind something softer than a plank for a bed.”
His mouth twitched.
A smile? She wasn’t sure.
“You are pluck to the bone, Miss Sloane.”
“Oh, please, don’t mention the word ‘bone,’” she muttered, wincing as she gingerly took a seat on the eiderdown coverlet. Even the softest of feathers felt horribly hard.
This time, his amusement was unmistakable. “I swear,” he said with a low chuckle, “you are quite unlike any other lady I’ve ever met before.”
“Much to your exasperation, I know…” Olivia’s eyes flew open. “W-what are you doing?”
“Taking off your half boots,” said John, who was already kneeling. “Stop squirming. The laces have tangled into knots.”
It took him several long moments to ease the mud-spattered leather from her stockinged feet. After setting them by the washstand, he rose and moved—a little stiffly, she noted—around to the far side of the bed. “Our valises have been brought up. I shall blow out the candle, and if we both turn our backs to each other, we should be able to dress for sleep with a minimum of embarrassment.”
“But of course, sir. That’s a perfectly practical suggestion,” replied Olivia, accepting the bag she had borrowed from Cecilia. “As you know, I’m not a dewy-eyed virgin, so I’m not about to fall into a maidenly swoon.”
However, the soft rustling of fabric from across the darkened room did stir a fluttery little tingle along the length of her spine. She couldn’t help but picture John’s shirt sliding over his head, revealing the stretch of sun-bronzed muscle and the peppering of coarse curls on his chest—
Don’t.
Olivia wriggled out of her garments and hastily assumed the heavy linen nightrail that the earl’s sister had provided.
Don’t think of his body, don’t think of his kisses.
Only fools made the same mistake twice, and she prided herself on possessing a modicum of intelligence. Though that might be questionable, she admitted to herself, given her actions over the last few weeks.
Fishing a hairbrush out of the valise, Olivia edged over to the dressing table, grateful that the looking glass was naught but a dark blur within the moon-kissed shadows. Unpinning her locks, she ran the bristles through her windblown curls, hoping to smooth the worst of the snarls.
“You may turn around now, sir,” she murmured, keeping her own back to the center of the room. “Even without the shroud of near darkness, modesty has been more than satisfied.”
His steps stirred hardly a sound. There was somethin
g very intimate about the moment—the soundless shadows, the whisper of bare feet on the rag rug, the soft swoosh of her strokes.
Swoosh, swoosh.
John’s touch was light as a zephyr—for an instant she thought it was merely a draft ruffling the loose linen of her nightrail. But then the pressure of his fingers deepened, their tips massaging at her taut muscles.
“Wrexham.” Her voice wavered somewhere between question and a protest.
“Hush,” he said, his palms stroking inward from the ridge of her shoulders to top of her spine.
Olivia wasn’t sure that she was capable of further speech. Simply breathing was proving difficult.
“The travel was rough today,” he added. The heat of him was soothingly warm. “And I fear it will likely get rougher.”
His hands kept up their steady movement. Strong, sure. Yielding to his slow circling, the knots in her back began to melt away.
As for the lump in her throat…
Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the sweet, sweet sensations of his touch. Heaven only knew if she would ever feel it again.
“You need not subject yourself to further discomforts,” murmured John after another few minutes. “I have the map, the instruments. Come morning, you can stay here while I continue on. I can send a letter to Cecilia and she will come fetch you.”
“Absolutely not,” said Olivia, finally finding her voice. “I’ve come this far, and I’ve no intention of turning back and allowing you to face those dastards on your own.”
“Miss Sloane, I’ve faced far worse odds on the battlefield.”
“No doubt,” she replied. “But you are forgetting that this is my fight, too. These men wish to silence our voice by threatening your son. I want to help you quash their nefarious plans—together we will free Prescott and see them defeated in Parliament.”
A muffled sound, and a breath of air tickled against the nape of her neck. A sigh? A laugh? Or perhaps a mixture of the two.
“You,” he murmured, “are far too determined—and too stubborn—for your own good.”
“Yes, well, that is why the tabbies of the ton call me the Hellion of High Street. I have had to be tough as nails in order to follow my passions, sir. If that offends you, I am sorry. But I am not, and will never be, a demure demoiselle.”
“It was not meant as a criticism,” said John softly. Drawing his thumbs down either side of her spine, he set his hands on the small of her back. Their warmth sent a lick of heat spiraling through her core.
“Now come to bed, Miss Sloane. We had better get some rest. We need to keep up our strength so that when we catch up to these dastards, we can beat them to a pulp.”
Bed. The memory of their passionate interlude in Hurley’s sun-dappled cottage bed stirred an ache of longing. In watching the working of Society from the shadows of London’s ballrooms, she had come to think that strong, solid men of integrity didn’t exist in the flesh. And yet here was a paragon of masculine muscle who was kind and caring despite his brusque manner. He was…he was, in a word…
Perfect.
Olivia wasn’t aware of having spoken, but somehow a sound must have slipped out, for he heard him chuckle.
“A lumpy mattress is hardly perfect,” murmured John. “But I shall not complain. For all its faults, it’s more comfortable than a hard slab of wind-chilled oak.”
However, a sharp grunt as he rolled on to his side quickly belied his optimism.
“Hmmph. I wonder what the cursed fellow has stashed in the stuffing.” He was no longer laughing. “My guess is turnips.”
“Or perhaps chestnuts for the Christmas season celebrations,” she suggested. “The lumps feel smaller than turnips.”
The suggestion drew a low snort of amusement. But whatever the source, they were clearly making it hard for the earl to settle into sleep.
Without thinking, Olivia reached out and brushed the long, curling hair from the column of his neck. “Try to relax. Your muscles are bunched in knots. Let me see if I can help loosen them.”
She took his silence as permission to continue. Deepening the pressure, she stroked her fingers over his flesh, moving up and down, from the base of his skull to the line of his spine.
“Better?”
“Much.”
Emboldened, Olivia raised her other hand and went to work on his shoulders. The lone candle was still alight, its soft flicker playing over the thin cotton nightshirt, the dark contours of muscle. She had never touched a man like this before. There was a profound sense of connection to such a long, leisurely interlude of exploring his body. A warmth radiating from something far different, far deeper than sexual heat. The tingling against her skin transcended passion. The sensation was gentler, calmer—and yet no less powerful.
John grunted and she felt the tension start to ease from his body.
It was very sensuous to slide her hands over his spine, his shoulderblades, his muscles and feel the nuances of shape and textures—sharp and rounded, hard and soft. She found herself acutely aware of the broad stretch of shoulders, the curve of his ribcage, the lean tapered waist.
“A man,” she mused aloud, “is really built quite differently from a woman.”
The pillows muffled most of John’s laugh. “It would be even more evident were I to turn over.”
She rather wished he would.
He grunted again, a rougher rumble from somewhere deep in his throat.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked, realizing that in her curiosity to learn all his subtle contours she had begun kneading his flesh with greater intensity.
“Mmmm, no, it feels good.” He shifted slightly. “More than good, in fact. Divine.”
“Your legs must be tired from bracing yourself on the box.” Moving her hands downward, Olivia skimmed over the intriguing curve of his buttocks to the back of his thighs, taking secret pleasure in making his lean, lithe body respond to her touch.
“Lovely,” he mumbled, “Lovely.”
As she worked over his legs, her strokes settled into a smooth rhythm. A soothing rhythm that held a natural intimacy.
At the thought, Olivia stifled a laugh. This was, she realized, her very first night of sleeping with a man. How oddly ironic that there was nothing romantic about it.
But then, there was a closeness between them that few newlyweds had. More than lovers, they were friends. At least she hoped they were, despite all the tangled emotions.
A sound—a snore—interrupted her reveries. She kept up her rubbing until she was sure from his breathing that he had fallen asleep.
“Rest easy, Wrexham,” she whispered. “Together we will find Prescott and bring him home safely.”
Drawing the blanket higher, she carefully tucked it over his shoulders and smoothed a curling lock of hair from his jaw before blowing out the candle and slipping under the covers beside him.
Chapter Twenty-One
By the by, what did you tell our host to explain our odd traveling arrangements?” asked Olivia the next morning, after the innkeeper set down a breakfast tray and bustled out of the private parlor.
“Oh, as to that, I managed to cobbled together a story worthy of Sir Sharpe Quill,” replied John.
She choked on her swallow of tea.
“But likely you are far too serious to read those horrid novels.” He took up a piece of buttered toast and downed it in two quick bites. “Cecilia seems to find them highly amusing—a fact which in this case proved very useful in spinning a colorful yarn.” A steaming cup of coffee, dark as Hades, washed down the bread. “We are husband and wife, racing to reach your dying mother in Plymouth before she shuffles off her mortal coil. Our coach cracked an axle, so we had to leave it behind with our servants and hire the only vehicle available in Guildford—the cabriolet.”
“Not bad,” she murmured. “Though, I daresay Sir Sharpe Quill would have added a few more embellishments.”
The idea of Olivia curled up in an armchair with one of the wild
ly racy books brought a twitch of amusement to his lips. “So, you have actually read his stories?”
“Every one of them,” replied Olivia.
John wasn’t sure whether she was jesting, but other more important things pushed the topic from his thoughts. “Finish your tea, Miss Sloane. The cabriolet will be ready shortly and we mustn’t waste a moment.”
Dawn was just beginning to lighten the horizon as a flick of his whip set the horses into a steady trot. His muscles were a trifle sore from the pounding pace of yesterday, but he had suffered far worse conditions in Portugal. As for Olivia, he slanted a sidelong look at her profile. Head bent, she was studying the large road map supplied by his sister’s coachman.
“Mr. Young says that if we take the left fork just past the village of Wheaton, it will cut over six miles off the distance to Andover.” She looked up, her face already powdered with gritty dust. “It’s a trifle narrow, he warns, and requires some driving skill. But the way is fairly flat and he’s confident that we can gain time.”
Pluck to the bone. Fatigue was etched at the corners of her lovely green eyes, and yet her spirit remained undaunted.
“Thank you,” he said. “It won’t be comfortable for you, but I cannot pass up the chance to gain ground on Scottie and his captors.”
She snagged the flapping ribbons of her bonnet and tied them tighter. “Curse my comfort, Wrexham. Let your team fly.”
The shortcut proved a testing route to negotiate, and the constant twists and jolts left his own insides feeling a little queasy. He could only imagine how his less battle-hardened companion was feeling. Her face, however, was a mask of stoic resolve.
I must be ruthless in pursuing every advantage, no matter how tenuous, John reminded himself. He couldn’t afford any tender sentiment. Not with Prescott’s life being used as a pawn in this dangerous game of check and checkmate.
Dangerous.
There was Olivia’s reputation to think of as well. So far, they had been traveling on less frequented roads. Once they returned to the main toll road, the chances of being recognized grew greater.