by Sabrina York
With a grin, he pulled out his pistol, along with the saber he kept strapped to his saddle—because he liked the look of it. This was the first time since Waterloo that he’d felt a need for it, but it felt fine and familiar in his fist.
“Ho, there,” he called as he approached.
The scraggly man with the weapon whirled on him. He took in the sight of Charles on his grey, sword aloft, and his mouth dropped open. He shot a glance at the naked men he had been robbing, then, with an eep, charged into the woods.
Charles frowned.
Well, that was disappointing. He’d been hoping for a fist fight at the very least.
No doubt the villain had already expunged his one shot and hadn’t thought to bring a second pistol. Hardly a surprise. These brigands were not career criminals. Most were veterans of the war who had come home to penury and turned to crime to survive.
But still. A fist fight would have been stimulating.
He dismounted next to the coach and smiled at the huddled men. Only partly because they were all completely naked and desperately attempting to cover their privates. His gaze flicked over their faces and stilled when it reached the boy.
His heart gave a lurch.
Though her eyes were down and she attempted to hide her face with her hat, he knew in an instant who it was.
How could he not?
His body recognized her, even before his mind did.
Well hell.
Britannia.
Horror and fury coiled in his gut as he realized she’d cut her hair. Cut her hair. That beautiful, thick mane of sable curls that had featured so prominently in his imaginings.
It was criminal. That’s what it was.
Beyond that, what on earth had she been thinking? How had she imagined such a disguise would work? What man with red blood in his veins would not see her for what she was?
Blinding rage and some scalding hint of fear for her welfare rocked him.
The woman was a menace.
She needed a keeper.
Hell, she needed a spanking.
A lesson, at the very least.
And he was the man to give it to her.
Britannia shook with relief at the sight of Charles charging toward them on his beautiful grey. But once he had chased off their assailant, it was quickly replaced with trepidation. Should he recognize her, he would immediately send her home. She was certain of it.
She pulled her hat down over her face and tried to position herself behind the convenient bulk of Mr. Cole-Winston. Fortunately, Charles’ attention was stolen by the thanks of the men as they all hurried to re-don their clothing.
She eased herself toward the coach, thinking to slip in before he noticed her. To her horror, he stepped in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. She flinched at the touch.
“Are you all right, boy?” he asked.
Keeping her head down, she nodded.
“These are dangerous times.”
He seemed to expect a response, so she nodded again.
“You seem young to be traveling alone.”
Oh, bother. Why didn’t he go and talk to someone else? “Not so young,” she said in a low voice, one she was certain did not sound like herself at all.
“How old are you, lad?”
Oh bloody hell. How old would a boy of her size be? She hardly knew. “Old enough.”
“Hmm.” His gaze seemed to burn through her and, against her best intentions, she glanced at him. To her relief, there was no flare of recognition in his eyes. “And where are you heading, may I ask?”
She thrust a thumb up the road. “North.”
“How far?”
“Um, Scotland.”
“Ah. Excellent. I myself am heading to Wick, and I find myself in need to a valet on this journey. I can offer you safe passage for your services. Ah. Here is my carriage now.”
Britannia glanced at the equipage that rolled up. A coach and four. And quite luxurious looking as well.
Safe passage would be wonderful, but Britannia knew if she agreed to travel with Charles, he would, at some point, recognize her. If she could keep him from doing so long enough, perhaps he would be inclined to escort her all the way to Wick.
“Have you ever acted as a valet before?”
She peeped at him again and shook her head.
“There is little to it. Brushing out my clothes, tying my cravat, arranging for my meals and such.” His offer was casual, relaxed and friendly. And frankly, the more she thought about it, the more attractive it was.
For one thing, his carriage probably did not smell of man sweat. It probably would not lurch wildly with every bump in the road. He would probably stop for longer than a few minutes at a time.
She would love a night’s sleep in a comfortable bed and a real meal.
“Well?” he asked.
And she had to nod. She had to agree. It might be the most foolish decision she’d ever made, but if she could maintain her disguise, it was, undoubtedly, her best choice. Clearly the mail coach was not as safe as she’d thought.
“Excellent. Shall we?” He gestured to his coach and, with a deep breath, she preceded him. The coach was well-appointed and lavish. The seats were thickly cushioned and covered in felt and the windows had curtains. The interior was marked with luxurious burled wood siding that had been shined to a high gloss and yes, indeed, it smelled like beeswax.
To her surprise, he did not join her in the coach. Rather, he touched the brim of his hat to her and mounted his grey once more. He sketched a farewell to the men he’d saved, who were collecting their things and climbing aboard the mail coach, and he took off, with his carriage—and Britannia—following behind.
Oh, this was an unexpected boon. For one thing, she did not have to worry about hiding her identity, at least not until they reached the next stop. And for another, she had the entirety of his lavish carriage in which to stretch out.
She did, and within minutes, lulled by the rocking and rhythmic sway, fell asleep.
Chapter Four
Well, hell.
He should probably not have pulled up alongside the carriage and peered in the window. Not only did his heart give a lurch at the sight of Britannia’s wearied face as she slept, something else stirred as well.
He had no business feeling such rampant arousal.
Britannia was his best friend’s sister.
Such thoughts should not be skulking in his mind.
Ah, but they were.
Visions of their bodies entwined, moving together in a brilliant blaze of passion. Her gaze upon him, limpid and sated in the aftermath. Her lips, parted as they were now, but moving toward him with illicit intent.
With a snort, he urged Seneca forward so he was no longer tempted to leer at her.
How on earth was he going to pretend she was a boy for the entire week left on the road? It would require massive self-discipline and a great acting ability as well.
As difficult as this journey promised to be, he knew it was for the best. He had to keep her with him so he knew she was safe. He didn’t have time to escort her back to London, and if he tried to send her back, she would, undoubtedly—as stubborn as she was—hare off again. And this time, without his protection.
Even though his rationale was logical, it still caused a ping or two of guilt.
Surely this argument was not an attempt to justify keeping her close for other reasons?
Surely he was not that unprincipled?
On the tail of that thought, he made a decision to notify the duke and Caesar of what had transpired as soon as he reached the next posting house. It eased his conscience…a tad. Though there was no need for guilt. Not really.
He had not caused this conundrum. And though his imagination was running amok with thoughts of her in his bed, he would not seduce her, could not seduce her. He was an honorable man, after all. And she was betrothed to another. In love with the man. So dedicated to him that she would risk her life to find him in
the remnants of war.
Nae. He could not seduce her. No matter how much he wanted to.
He would, however, teach her a lesson about the imprudence of her actions. Running off on her own had been the height of recklessness. In fact, the more he thought on it, and the more his frustration festered, the more he liked the idea of having her serve as his valet. As he rode through the afternoon and into twilight, far ahead of the coach, he toyed with one idea after another, each cleverly constructed to show Lady Britannia Halsey the folly of her ways.
He had a sister, after all. If she were ever so foolish, he would hope an honorable man would take charge of Chelsea and do what he intended to do.
Which was purely teaching the girl a lesson.
Purely.
By the time he reached the inn in Durham, he had the entire scenario plotted out. It was difficult keeping the wicked grin from his face as he dismounted and handed Seneca off to the ostler. He pulled off his gloves as he strolled to the inn, feeling very vengeful, indeed.
It took the coach a while to catch up with him but by the time it had, Charles was ready for her.
“There you are,” he gusted as he pulled open the door of the coach. The sight of her sleep-laden eyes scored him to the core. She looked far too innocent and fragile for what he intended. He forced his contrition away. “Come along now. There is much to do.”
She blinked. “Much to do, sir?” At least she’d given up on the deep voice she’d failed so miserably at earlier.
“Yes. As my valet, you shall order and serve my meal. I hear the shepherd’s pie is excellent here, and a tankard of ale, I think. I’ll take the meal in my rooms. And then, while I am eating, you can arrange for my bath.”
Her eyes went wide. “Your…bath?”
He had to nibble his lip to keep from smiling. “Yes, of course.” It had taken some doing to convince the innkeeper that, as an earl, he valued his privacy and preferred that his “valet” carry the buckets up to his room. Was it so loutish of him to show her how the less fortunate lived? He did not think so. “And then later, you may brush out my traveling clothes in preparation for tomorrow.”
If he expected her to balk, or wail or cry, he was doomed to disappointment. She hopped out of the coach and with a nod and a brisk, “Yes, milord,” scuttled into the inn.
Charles stared after her. Unaccountably, his smile fell into a frown.
Perhaps he should have had her curry Seneca as well. Clean out the stall at the very least.
But the thought brought him up short. It was not his intention to punish her. Simply show her the errors of her ways. Make her regret running away.
And, if he were being honest, create some sort of wall between them so he could grapple with his untoward attraction for a woman who could never be his.
Britannia Halsey had never done a day’s work in her life. There had always been someone there to fetch and carry for her, so playing a servant was rather new. Oddly enough, she enjoyed it.
For one thing, it was fascinating to see how a kitchen worked. How the cooks and turnspits bustled around creating wonderful-smelling meals. She liked the camaraderie of the staff as well. The innkeeper’s son, Will, fed her and chatted with her as she waited for the earl’s meal to be prepared, and he even helped her set up the buckets to warm on the hearth. Britannia would not have had an inkling of how many buckets would be required, and though she’d bathed daily, it was a surprise how much effort the luxury commanded.
Most of all, she loved the freedom. As the earl’s valet, she could wander through the common rooms and listen in on conversations amongst the other travelers—some of which were ribald, indeed—and no one questioned her presence or scolded her for slouching or asked her to play the pianoforte.
Of course, there was no pianoforte here, but there was a man with a violin playing a song with bawdy lyrics. She sat in the corner tapping her toe, reveling in the realness of this scenario.
Not that parlors and sitting rooms weren’t real. They were. But there was something forced and unnatural about most social interactions in the ton. Here, men were laughing and joking, and the women on their laps were laughing and joking as well, clearly enjoying themselves.
It really was a delightful way to spend an evening.
That was, until the earl clomped down the stairs and scanned the room with a furious expression on his handsome face. His attention lit on her and his frown deepened. Thankfully, he did not bellow, but when he made his way to her corner and spoke softly, it was perhaps even more menacing.
“What in blazes are you doing here?” he asked.
Britannia blinked. “Waiting for your supper, milord.” One would think that was obvious.
Charles shot a glare around the room and his face went a little red. “Here?”
The way he said it, one would think they were in the bowels of hell itself. “It’s quite pleasant.”
He muttered something beneath his breath and then made his way into the kitchen and emerged moments later with his shepherd’s pie and ale. “Come along, boy,” he said as he headed for the stairs.
“Oh, but your lordship,” she said in a cheery voice. “I’m waiting for your water to warm as well.”
His eyes narrowed on her and then he spun on his heel, back into the kitchen, where he barked for someone to bring the buckets up. Then with a jerk of his head, commanding her to follow, he headed upstairs.
While it was a relief she wouldn’t have to carry all those buckets, she was sad to leave the common rooms. But there would be other inns along their journey, and with the freedom of a valet, she could have other such adventures.
The earl led the way into his rooms, which were probably the largest and grandest in the inn. That said, they were not terribly large or grand, but the bed looked comfortable and there was a large brass tub set up by the fire.
She knew better than to lust after that tub—it was for Charles alone. But it would be lovely to wash the dirt of the road from her skin.
He set his plate on the table and sat with a grunt. “I cannot imagine why you thought those common rooms were an appropriate place to linger.”
She stood behind him, unsure of what a valet might do. Would he sit? Would he wait for an invitation to sit? “I wasn’t lingering.”
Charles’ head whipped around. He glowered at her. “You most certainly were.”
“I do apologize,” she said in a wintery tone. Honestly. There was no call for him to behave like a savage. Even though he was a Scot. Certainly, she was his “servant” but that did not give him leave to be rude.
“Did it not occur to you that I would be worried about you when you did not return with my meal posthaste?”
Worried? What blather. “No, milord. Though I did imagine you might be worried about your pie.”
His mouth fell open, as though he intended to say something, then it snapped shut. “My pie?”
“I was diligently waiting for it to be ready for you. Guarding your interests, if you will.”
He might have wanted to say more, but someone knocked on the door.
While Britannia didn’t know much about being a valet, she was fairly certain they opened doors for earls when someone happened to knock. So she did.
And she smiled at Will, who stood there, with a coterie of servants, each carrying a steaming bucket. “Come in,” she said.
As the fellows dumped their buckets into the tub, Britannia and Will continued the conversation they’d had earlier about the local fair that was underway in Newcastle Upon Tyne. It had sounded wonderful, and if Britannia were not on a mission to get to Wick, she might have tarried a day or so to enjoy it.
She’d never been to a village fair. No doubt it would be quite an adventure.
Apparently, this conversation only fueled the earl’s testiness. His expression darkened a little more each time Britannia smiled at Will or laughed at one of his jests.
By the time the other men left the room, he was in a very poor temper, indeed.
“And what was that all about?” he barked.
Had he not been listening? “There is a fair in Newcastle—”
“I heard all that. What did you mean, smiling at him like that?”
Britannia blinked. “Like what?”
Charles muttered something beneath his breath and pushed his plate away. He’d only taken a few bites.
“Would you like something else?” she asked. “I’d be happy to go down and fetch you something more to your liking.”
“The pie is fine. I’ve just lost my appetite.”
Honestly. She didn’t understand this man at all. But she was glad she was having a chance to see this other side of him. He’d been so polite in London. Painfully polite. Detached and urbane.
This man growled and snapped and became overset at the simplest of things.
They did say the measure of a man was the way he treated his servants, so there was that at least.
“I think it’s time for my bath,” he said abruptly and Britannia nodded.
“I shall wait in the hall.”
He pinned her with a dark look, one that made her throat close. “Oh no, my lad. I expect you to bathe me.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw went slack.
Surely he was jesting.
But no. There it was, in his eyes. Determination.
“Come now,” he said, standing and holding out his arms. “Undress me.”
Chapter Five
Britannia gulped. The command had utterly thrown her for a loop.
Undress him?
How strange that a curl of excitement whipped through her belly. She resolved, however, to be as aloof and blasé as he, and stepped behind him to help him shed his coat.
A frisson of restlessness, a coil of tension shot through her at the sight of this man in his shirtsleeves. This was a shockingly intimate tableau. She reminded herself she was his servant and there was nothing more to it. But when he turned around, so she could untie his cravat, she began to shake.