by Karen Ranney
The descent down the mountain was done with some caution, she was happy to note. There was little need for haste even though she wanted to be as far from Castle Crannoch as she could be, as quickly as possible.
She glanced at Robert to find him yawning. “You didn’t sleep well last night,” she said.
He only nodded.
Robert shifted in the seat, leaning his head back against the cushion. She spread the blanket over his legs.
“You can put your feet up here,” she offered, “if you’d like to stretch out a little more.”
“It isn’t polite,” he said, once more the proper young duke.
Beatrice smiled, amused that Robert vacillated between an old-fashioned courtliness and an autocratic arrogance.
She patted her lap, and he was finally convinced to prop his feet up on the lap robe. He arranged one of the blankets behind him as a makeshift pillow and burrowed beneath another until only his nose showed.
Within moments, he was asleep.
In the snug carriage, with the brazier heating her feet and her legs kept warm from the blanket she and Robert shared, it was difficult to remember they might be in danger.
She pretended an interest in the increasing snowfall, but in actuality she was studying Devlen.
All in all, it was an arresting face, one drawing her gaze time and again. Was she the only woman to feel so attracted, or did Devlen Gordon simply have that effect on all females in his environment? When he walked into a crowded ballroom, did every woman there turn to regard him? Were they coy in their glances? Or did they make no secret of their fascination for him?
He glanced at her then, as if he had the power to understand her confusion and her curiosity. A corner of his lip curled upward, a mocking acceptance of her studious assessment.
“What can you be thinking, Miss Sinclair?”
“I was thinking you must charm women,” she said, giving him the truth with no reluctance whatsoever.
He looked momentarily disconcerted, and she vowed from that moment always to be direct with him. Doing so equalized them. He was evidently unfamiliar with those who spoke the truth, and she was equally so with those who spoke falsehoods.
“I have no lack of companions, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t, actually. You’ve already spoken of Felicia. Are you bragging? Or simply letting me know how many women you have?”
“You’re very constrained, Miss Sinclair.”
“Am I?”
“I’ve never seen a woman as constrained as you.”
“Is that as great a sin in your eyes as the ability to stretch the truth?”
“It’s a characteristic that concerns me, oddly enough.”
She fisted her hands in her lap and glanced at him. “Why is that?”
“You’re too calm. I’ve never seen you angry, although I’ve given you ample reason to be. You might be afraid, but you don’t appear to be.”
“Why should I indulge in drama?”
“Who hurt you, Miss Sinclair?”
For a moment she could only stare at him, flummoxed.
“Was it life itself? Too much unexpected grief? Too many disappointments?”
“Are you this rude to every woman of your acquaintance?”
“Most women don’t incite my curiosity. They bore me, instead. But you, Miss Sinclair, are a different situation entirely.”
“Should I pray to be boring, Mr. Gordon?”
“It’s too late for that. I’m already intrigued.”
She looked out the window at the falling snow. The winter scene was starkly beautiful. There was no reason to be touched to tears, but she suddenly wanted to cry. Or worse, confide in him about the previous year, living in the cottage after burying her parents. Systematically burying her friends, too, while she waited for cholera to sicken her.
Over the years, she’d developed her mind, and whenever emotions persisted, she allowed them some freedom before restraining them and tucking them back into their proper place. Even her grief had been similarly controlled. She needed to concentrate on living in the present.
After all, she was pragmatic and practical, a survivor.
She turned to face him again. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about what’s been happening to Robert?”
The incident in the woods and the dead birds were enough to be concerned about.
“I’ll protect Robert. You needn’t worry. For that matter, Miss Sinclair, I’ll protect you.”
“Physically, Mr. Gordon? Or morally?”
There, the challenge was out in the open.
He only smiled.
An image of his black-on-black coach thundering through the countryside, faintly illuminated by the lanterns on the outside, came to her. He’d terrified her the first time she’d seen it.
She’d be a fool not to be afraid. How odd she wasn’t. The emotion coursing through her wasn’t remotely like fear.
“For someone who dislikes the dark, you certainly use it to your advantage.”
“I don’t sleep very much. Three hours at the most. Why waste the time?”
She had no answer for that.
The snow fell in a cloud of flakes, as if they were feathers wafting on the chilled breeze. They clung to every surface, trees, bushes, and grass, transforming the world into a white fairyland, a place so delicate and ethereal it stopped her breath.
Her eyes tickled with unshed tears. An odd moment to cry. Or perhaps the best moment, after all. There was so much loveliness in the world, the same world in which there dwelt so much horror. A paradox, one in which they were forced to live.
She wanted something at this moment, something she couldn’t quite define or explain. Something that would answer the restlessness deep inside her. She was either hungry or lonely or distraught and more than a little curious as to why she couldn’t identify the feelings completely. Perhaps it was because all this time, she’d cocooned herself, protecting herself from the grief and fear that were too painful to experience on a daily basis. Perhaps she was separated from her own discomfort, like stubbing her toe and not feeling the pain until hours later.
Was she just now recognizing the full extent of her own loneliness?
Devlen Gordon made it difficult not to feel. Every time she was in his presence, she was different…alive, somehow. As if he had the capacity to stir her—or awaken her—in some way.
He was too strong a personality, too forceful to ignore. Nor could she avoid the fact that he was so quintessentially male. There were times, like now, when she wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if the muscles hinted at below his shirtsleeves were truly real.
Her gaze was entirely too intent on his trousers. She was even curious about his feet, encased in knee-high boots. His chest looked too broad to be completely real, and she had the absurd and horrified thought that perhaps he wore padding beneath his clothes.
Not Devlen Gordon. He wasn’t the type to engage in artifice. He was more the kind of man who would dare society to judge him for what he truly was—handsome or ugly, short or tall, rich or poor.
But of course he was handsome, tall and rich, and the relative of a duke. No doubt he was extremely popular in Edinburgh.
“Why haven’t you ever married?”
“Is it any of your concern, Miss Sinclair?”
“None at all.”
“You’re very curious. In that, we’re alike. If I answer your question, will you forfeit one to me?”
She didn’t answer for a moment.
“Afraid?”
“Not afraid,” she said. “Wise, perhaps.”
“Perhaps I’ll ask you something improper.”
“I expect you to.”
“Then why the hesitation?” Devlen asked.
“I’m trying to decide if I’ll answer.”
He smiled at her again.
“Shall I start then? The answer to your question, Miss Sinclair, is that I’ve never made the time for marriage.”
<
br /> “The time?”
“Courtship takes a measure of time I’ve never been willing to spare.”
“Not to mention emotion,” Beatrice said.
“There is that.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Ah, but it was only one question. I think it’s my turn now. Have you ever been in love, Miss Sinclair? Not an improper question after all.”
“No. Never.”
“A pity. The emotion is said to be very heady.”
“Really?”
“Love makes fools of us all, I’ve heard.”
“Have you?” Beatrice asked.
“Can’t you envision me playing the fool, Miss Sinclair?”
“Not unless it was to your advantage, Mr. Gordon.”
His smile broadened. “You think me a cynic?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Cynicism is just another word for wisdom.”
“So, you’re too wise to fall in love?” she asked.
“I don’t think love has anything to do with wisdom. I think it simply occurs when it will.”
“Like a bolt of lightning?”
“Do you believe in love at first sight, Miss Sinclair?”
“No.”
He laughed softly. “Now who’s the cynic?”
“Why fall in love with someone’s appearance? People get sick, or grow old. The character matters more than looks, Mr. Gordon. Wit, intelligence, kindness, all matter more than appearance.”
“So, you would have love come after a conversation?”
“Perhaps.”
“How long would it take?”
“The conversation?”
His smile chided her. “Falling in love.”
“How should I know if it’s never happened to me?”
“Perhaps we should talk longer, Miss Sinclair, have a few more conversations.”
He looked away, and it was just as well, because she didn’t know how to answer him.
Chapter 21
The weather was growing worse. The snow formed a curtain between them and the rest of the world. She couldn’t see the trees or the bushes lining the road anymore, and it was evident the driver was having difficulty with the horses as well because their speed had slowed considerably. Twice, the driver had rapped on the small window separating him from the passengers, and twice Devlen had reassured him there was no need for haste.
“Take your time, Peter,” he’d said on the last occasion. “We’ll make an inn soon enough.”
“So, we are going to stay the night?” Beatrice asked.
He sat back against the seat and surveyed her indolently. “The weather has made further travel an impossibility.”
“Is it entirely proper?”
“You and I staying at an inn together, chaperoned only by my seven-year-old cousin? You alone can decide the answer, Miss Sinclair.”
“I’m not entirely certain I like the way you say my name. It always has a touch of sarcasm about it.”
“My apologies, Miss Sinclair. I meant no affront.”
She frowned at him.
“Unless we sleep in the same chamber, I’m certain your reputation will remain as pure tomorrow as it is today. Or perhaps I am assuming too much. Is your reputation unsullied?”
She looked over at him, more than a little offended. “Of course.”
“Then I should worry about other things, Miss Sinclair. Reputation does not seem to be an important one.”
“Possibly because you have none to lose,” she said.
But he only looked amused at her comment. “If that is your opinion of me, then you have joined a great many other people. I wonder what it is about me that makes people immediately label me a sinner?”
He glanced at her. “Do you have a great deal of experience in recognizing sinners, Miss Sinclair?”
“My father was schoolteacher, not a minister. But it seems to me with your penchant for dark coaches and traveling at night, you encourage people to think the worst of you.”
“Simply because I hate to waste time, I’m now to be punished as an evildoer. How very quaint.”
“Perhaps people are afraid of you. They often label as evil what they don’t understand.”
“Therefore, in order to counter their bad opinion, I should endeavor to make myself understandable?”
“Perhaps.”
“The fact is, Miss Sinclair, that I don’t care what a great many people think of me. Does my attitude surprise you?”
“Not in the least.”
“There are, however, several people whose opinion I do value. Would it further surprise you to know you are among that small and select cadre?”
“Very much,” she said, finding it difficult to hold his gaze.
“I find I do care what you think about me. I am not the lecher my father would make me out to be.”
“I have not often discussed you with your father.”
“But you have discussed me. How novel, an honest woman.”
“That’s not the first time you’ve alluded to dishonesty being a female trait. I would venture as many men are dishonest as women.”
“On the contrary, it’s been my experience that women as a whole do not tell the truth unless it suits their purpose.”
“I think perhaps, as a representative of my species, I should be insulted.”
“But you aren’t, and I wonder why that is? In fact, you’re rarely upset, Miss Sinclair. Do you ever cry?”
“A rather personal question, isn’t it? I demand a forfeit.”
“Very well. But answer first.”
“No, I don’t cry often.”
“Why not? And before you protest, Miss Sinclair, it’s only part of the original question. A clarification, if you will.”
“Because I’ve never found tears were worth shedding. Why cry? It will not make the situation easier to bear.”
“Do you ever feel any strong emotion? Anger, joy?”
“It’s my turn to ask a question.”
He sat back and folded his arms, waiting.
“Why do you have such a bad opinion of women? Who hurt you?”
He smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Sinclair, but no one. If I have a somewhat jaundiced view of women, it’s because I only view them as companions for the evening. I have no women friends, and I’ve rarely spent time with them unless it was in amatory pursuits.”
“You should. You’d discover that women do not, as you think, use honesty or the lack of it to manipulate others.”
“Then you are very sheltered, Miss Sinclair, because I could show you five or six women in Edinburgh alone who have a singular ability to do exactly that.”
Despite his words, she still had the feeling he’d been hurt in the past. But Devlen Gordon was not a person for whom she should have any compassion or pity. First of all, he would be amused at it. Secondly, she doubted those poor women were ever able to harm him. More like he’d broken their hearts.
The carriages lowed even further. She flicked a finger beneath the shade and surveyed the white world outside the carriage.
“It’s gotten so much colder,” she said, looking up at the gray-white sky.
“I’m afraid we’re in for a blizzard, sir,” the driver said, peering down into the window again.
“A blizzard?” She glanced at Devlen. “Does that mean we won’t be able to travel through to Edinburgh?”
“What that means, Miss Sinclair, is we need to take shelter and wait out the storm.” He glanced up at Peter. “The horses will be freezing. Make for the nearest inn.”
“Yes, sir.”
She glanced at Devlen, surprised he should feel such compassion for four-legged creatures and none at all for women.
He smiled at her then, as if gauging the tenor of her thoughts. If so, she should mind her features with greater skill.
Less than a quarter hour later, a tall gray building appeared out of the white blur of snow. The windows were lit like welcoming beacons
.
Beatrice sat back among the cushions, grateful they’d finally found shelter.
She glanced down at the sleeping boy and reached out one hand to gently cup his cheek.
“Robert,” she said softly. “You need to wake.”
“Leave him,” Devlen said. “I’ll carry him inside.” There was an expression on his face she had never before seen, a tenderness oddly suiting him.
She didn’t say anything in return, merely pulled the lap robe up around Robert’s shoulders and tented it so his face was shielded.
The carriage stopped, and the door opened, the driver standing there coated in snow, his cheeks red as he moved from one foot to the other to warm himself.
“After you’ve done with the team, Peter,” Devlen told the driver, “get yourself inside. You needn’t stay with the horses tonight.”
The man looked surprised, and Beatrice wondered if it was his habit to sleep in the stables. That impression was strengthened when Devlen held out his hand and gave Peter a small drawstring bag to his obvious surprise.
“Buy yourself something warm to drink,” he said. “You’ve earned it, getting us here safely.”
“Thank you, sir.” The driver’s seat face split into a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon. I’ll do just that.”
Devlen left the coach first and helped her out. Once she was standing on the frozen ground, he reached into the carriage and emerged with Robert in his arms, the blanket half over the boy’s face to protect him from the falling snow.
“Will we be able to travel in the morning?”
Devlen’s smile was remarkably warm considering she could barely see him through the snow flurries.
“Shall we let the snow take care of itself? We won’t know until the morning.”
Until then, she had to get through the whole long night.
Despite the fact the inn was large, it wasn’t especially prosperous. The greeting they received from the effusive innkeeper was so fawning Beatrice wondered if he thought them royalty. The weather had evidently driven most of his regular clientele away, and the taproom was empty except for one man sitting huddled before the fire.
“Your best rooms,” Devlen said, shifting Robert’s weight in his arms. He acted as if he was familiar with being obeyed and quickly.
The innkeeper bowed, still smiling. “Of course, sir. How many would that be?” He glanced at Beatrice and back at Devlen.