They rode in silence for a time, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Ewan removed his coat and slung it beside him on the seat. He stretched his legs before him, and they brushed against her skirt.
Yvette nudged her hatbox aside, then scooted a few inches nearer the door. “I’m sorry. Your legs are much longer than mine. I didn’t think to allow you more room.”
She fanned herself even faster, seeking some relief from the sweltering temperature inside the carriage. Did she dare remove her outer garments?
Fluid as a jaguar, and as fleet, Ewan sprang to sit beside her. Snatching the hatbox, he lifted it up and down a couple of times. “What’s in here? It weighs a stone.” Before she could protest he placed it onto the seat across from them.
“I’ve plenty of legroom now.” He smiled and tapped one of the silk flowers on her hat. “Remove your spencer and bonnet.”
She looked at him doubtfully. It was improper.
He winked. “No one will know but us, and you’ll be more comfortable.”
Could he read her mind?
Yvette quirked her mouth, then shrugged her shoulders. “That was my thought too.”
Though his lids were lowered, Yvette knew he watched her. She removed her bonnet, set it on her lap, and then struggled to shrug off the form-fitting jacket in the confined space.
She elbowed him in the chest. “Excuse me.”
And thumped him in the thigh. “Sorry.”
Blister it. There’s not enough room.
“Allow me to assist you,” Ewan said chuckling, “else I shall be covered with more bruises.”
A flush stole its way up Yvette’s neck and face.
He plucked the hat from her lap, then tossed it onto the opposite seat. Startled, she gasped as he reached around her and began tugging the spencer from her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Yvette spun around on the seat. She’d give him a proper setdown. At Ewan’s look of mock contriteness a smile crooked her mouth.
He deserves a setdown.
Or perhaps it was his naughty schoolboy grin that had her lips twitching.
He can’t behave so shabbily.
When he waggled his eyebrows and chuckled at his own audacity, she gave up and succumbed to her laughter. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”
“Let’s get that thing off you, shall we?” Once the jacket was removed, Ewan loosened the latch on one window, allowing fresh air into the carriage. The coach-and-four’s speed increased as it left the congestion of London behind and headed into the wide-open countryside.
Yvette glimpsed one of the soldiers through the window. “Ewan, do we truly require the soldiers for our journey?”
“Only Trent and the coachmen will continue on after lodging tonight. Yancy believed it wise to present a strong show of force to anyone thinking to follow us. That’s why he sent the soldiers.”
Yvette had to acknowledge the wisdom in that. Edgar wouldn’t dare try anything with this many armed men along.
“They’ll return to London.” Ewan angled his dark head toward the soldiers. “Though a difficult task, I hope to arrive at Somersfield in four days’ time. We shall travel until dusk today in order to put the city, and Edgar, as far behind us as possible.”
Yvette nodded. “I’ve only been to Somersfield on two other occasions. I don’t recall the route at all.”
“We shall stay on the well-traveled roads,” he said. “Ian made arrangements for our accommodations. I frequent these inns regularly, and they are clean and respectable.”
After spending two months in a cabin with Mrs. Pettigrove, any private room, no matter how humble, was acceptable to Yvette.
True to his word, Ewan pressed the traveling party relentlessly before stopping for the night. As she descended from the carriage, Yvette surveyed the inn. She was too exhausted to take more than a cursory look.
The driver helped an unsteady Peggy from the top. She wavered for a moment. “Lawks, the ground’s amovin’.”
Ewan took Yvette’s elbow and guided her across the threshold, directly into the packed common room.
Peggy made straight for a bench paralleling the wall. Her face ashen, she collapsed on the seat, then rested her head against the wall.
A giant of an innkeeper lumbered from behind the counter and extended his hand to Ewan. The mammoth man sent a curious look her way. “Och. Pleased I be to see ye again, Laird McTavish.”
“And I you, Fergus.”
Yvette scanned the taproom. An unnatural silence permeated it. Every patron had turned to stare at her, several of them lewdly. One aged gentleman dared to wink at her. Another had the audacity to raise his tankard and salute her, a vulgar leer on his otherwise attractive face.
Stepping closer to Ewan, she placed a hand on his arm, and attempted to hide her unease.
Ewan tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, then announced, “Fergus, I’d like to introduce you to my betrothed, Yvette Stapleton. Yvette, this is an old friend of mine, Fergus MacDowell.”
Yvette didn’t miss the grizzled red eyebrows flying to meet the equally bright mop of fiery hair at his disclosure.
Did he suspect Ewan lied?
“Betrothed, ye say? Och, that’s cause to celebrate. ‘Tis very pleased I be to meet ye, Miss Stapleton.” Fergus’s brogue thickened with his enthusiasm. Bowing with the dignity of a knight at court, Fergus intoned, “Welcome to the Rose an’ Crown, lass.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. MacDowell.”
“Fergus will do, ye.”
Mr. Carmichael and the soldiers entered, and the pub resumed its noisy milieu, the curiosity over her dismissed as quickly as it had begun.
Thank goodness. Relief washed over her. The tension eased from her shoulders, and she loosened her grip on Ewan’s arm. From the corner of her eye, she surveyed the antechamber. The patrons were reabsorbed in their brew.
“All is done for ye and yer bonnie lass. The others,” Fergus tilted his head in the direction of the soldiers, “will bunk inna the loft, except the lass.” He pointed to Peggy. “She can sleep with me own daughter. The room is down the hall from yours, Miss Stapleton, if ye needs her during the night.”
Peggy raised her head and peered at Yvette with bleary eyes. “Miss, might I go straight to bed? Me belly and me head are swimmin’.”
“Of course, Peg.”
Fergus motioned with one hand. “If ye’ll come with me.”
Yvette, Ewan, and Peggy followed him up the squeaky flight of stairs. Each step grumbled and moaned in protest as his enormous form ascended the narrow stairwell.
At the top, he opened a door to a stark, but spotless chamber. A small table and two chairs stood in the middle atop a braided rug. “Do ye wish to eat below stairs or inna here?”
“Here will be fine,” Ewan answered. “After supping, we shall need water for bathing. Please bring our bags up too.”
Yvette took in the rest of the small room. There’s but one small bed. Ewan didn’t mean to share this room with her, did he? No indeed, he would be sleeping in the loft then too.
Nodding his vibrant head, Fergus turned to do Ewan’s bidding. “I will see to it. Yer chamber’s yonder.” He tilted his head to indicate a room across from Yvette’s “‘Tis as ye bid afore.” He pointed to a door farther along the corridor. “Second door on the right, lass.”
Peggy shuffled her way to the door, then disappeared into the darkened room.
Trudging down the hallway, Fergus began bellowing a lewd ditty about the generous backsides of bonnie Scot’s lasses.
Yvette sighed in relief. Ewan only meant to dine with her, not sleep in the same chamber. It was shocking enough to be traveling with only a slip of a girl as a chaperone. Sharing a chamber was unthinkable.
Due t
o the lateness of the hour, Yvette and Ewan enjoyed a cold repast. He drank wine and she sipped an aromatic blend of Scot’s tea. One of the soldiers delivered their bags while they ate.
Soon after, Fergus arrived with buckets of warm water followed by a maid toting soap and towels. “Ye be needin’ anything else, Miss Stapleton, laird?” he asked.
Yvette smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Aye. Goodnight then.” He crossed to the door.
“Fergus, wait.” Ewan stood. “I’ll go with you. I need to speak with Trent.”
Yvette rose from her chair, then lifted her valise onto the bed. Opening it, she began rummaging around inside and placing various items on the bed. She muttered to herself, “Where is it? I know I packed it.”
“Yvette, I’ll check with you before I retire.” Ewan followed Fergus out the door. He paused on the threshold. “Lock the door, and whatever you do, don’t open it for anyone but me.”
Chapter 12
Not quite an hour later, attired in a chaste white nightgown and robe, Yvette sat brushing her hair. She’d found her brush at the bottom of her valise. A knock rattled the chamber door. Pausing in mid-stroke, she called, “Who is it?”
A familiar chuckle echoed without. “Well-done, now open up. I need a moment with you.”
Setting the hairbrush on the table, Yvette stood. Barefoot, she padded to the door, then retied her robe more securely before turning the key. Opening the door a fraction, she peeked at Ewan.
He lifted his brow and his mouth slanted into a sardonic grin. “Vixen. I’ve no intention of conversing with you through that gap. Let me in. I need to speak with you.”
He winked. “I promise to behave.”
She retreated a step as he pushed his way into the room, leaving the door ajar. His hair was damp, no doubt from bathing, and the stubble darkening his face earlier was gone. Feet bare, wearing only buckskin breeches and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist, he resembled a pirate.
A dangerous, rakish, sinfully handsome pirate.
She sucked in her breath. He oughtn’t to be here, but he’d said he wanted to talk to her, and he had promised to behave.
Yvette’s eyes traveled the path of silky hair from his chest until it disappeared into his waistband. Her stomach flip-flopped. Sweet Lord above. She pressed her hands to her frolicking middle. Why doesn’t he say something?
A distraction, that’s what she needed. She escaped to the lumpy bed where she had flung her clothing before bathing. She folded and packed the garments into her valise and set it on the floor beside her trunk. She bent to retrieve her bath towel, and peeked side-ways at him from the corner of her eye.
He hasn’t moved. What’s he about?
Grabbing the towel, she glanced downward and froze. The candles to her left bathed her in a stream of light. She could clearly see the outline of her legs. Her nightwear was almost translucent in the candlelight and gave him a shadowy view of— dear God—nearly everything.
No wonder he hadn’t moved, the rogue.
Standing upright, she clutched the towel to her, and faced him. “Enjoying the view, your lordship?” she snapped.
Ewan rested against the doorframe, watching her. “Immeasurably.”
Her anger gave way to nervousness. His relaxed posture contrasted sharply with the predatory gleam in his eyes. She tried a different tack. With calmness she was nowhere near feeling she said, “You said you wished to speak with me?”
“Indeed, I did.” He remained motionless except for his eyes, which burned a scorching path from her neckline to her toes and slowly upwards again, lingering on her arms folded across her breasts.
She tapped her bare foot in annoyance. “Well?”
He straightened, then closed the door. His long strides made short work of the distance between them. Yvette scooted around to the other side of the bed. Better to have something between them with that glint in his eye. Why had she been so foolish as to let him in?
Because he promised to behave.
Her mouth dropped open when he didn’t stop, but came around the bed, advancing slowly and sinuously, until his thighs were pressed against her quaking ones. He plucked the towel from her shaking hands, then tossed it onto the floor. His chest was scant inches from hers.
And that glimmer in his eyes?
She’d seen that look before. In Belle-mére’s cat’s eyes. Right before it pounced on an unsuspecting butterfly—and gobbled the poor thing up.
Yvette peered at him, pulling her lower lip into her mouth and nibbling it in her confusion. He most definitely is not behaving.
She didn’t have much experience—any experience—with half-clothed men in her bedchamber, but the smoldering in Ewan’s eyes was unmistakable. Hypnotized by the mesmerizing promise bared in the depths of his eyes, she was incapable of speaking. The moment was short-lived as her senses sprang to life, whispering a cautious warning.
In a rush she blurted, “Your lordship, ‘tis most improper for you to be in my chamber. I’m not suitably attired.”
A wicked smile curved his mouth. “I’ve seen you in less.”
The husky timbre of his voice rippled over her flesh, raising the hairs on her skin. Blister it, he had, but he was a bore for reminding her.
The whispering increased, transforming into a shrieking alarm in her head. Merciful God, his eyes were devouring her.
No indeed, this was not good behavior.
He moved an inch closer.
Not acceptable behavior by any measure.
His hard groin pressed against her soft womanhood. Arching away from him, Yvette became frantic. She wasn’t sure she could resist his advances. More terrifyingly, did she want to?
“Lord Seth—”
With lightning speed she was encompassed in an embrace of velvet iron. Ewan didn’t attempt to do anything other than hold her in his arms, one hand stroking her back. Nevertheless, she struggled against the steely band. She was more afraid of herself, of her response to him, than anything he might do.
“Ewan,” she gasped, levering her arms between them.
Her eyes searched his, and all the while his hand glided over her.
He bent and kissed her on the nose. “I adore your freckles.”
She went squashy inside. You do?
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
Yvette relaxed against him. The strong hand caressing her spine calmed her, erasing her uneasiness. So great was her relief, and so wonderful was Ewan’s touch soothing away her tension, she wanted to purr in contentment.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and pressed closer to him.
“Ma belle?” He spoke against her hair.
Tilting her head, she recognized the hunger in his eyes. Her breath hitched. He wanted to kiss her, yet he hesitated. He was letting her choose.
Raising her chin, she offered him her mouth.
Lowering his head, Ewan hovered over her lips as if in anticipation, then captured her mouth in a scorching kiss. Yvette was stunned by the fierceness of the assault on her senses. She was trapped in the swirling kaleidoscope of passion, and her defenses were stripped away by the torrent of sensation.
She returned his kiss with longing she had not known she possessed.
He eased her onto the mattress, continuing his tender onslaught on her overwhelmed senses. Rendered incapable of resisting, she could only feel, respond, and savor these delightful new sensations.
Ewan was bewitched. His logical, controlled mind had been taken over by his desire for the woman in his arms. Yvette’s innocent responses added fuel to his passion’s fire. Rubbing his face alongside her soft neck, he inhaled her floral scent, and nuzzled the tender skin. “So soft. You smell good.”
She moaned.
Watching her
pleasure-flushed face, he smoothed his hand over the indentation of her waist, drawing the silky material of her gown up, up, up, until the luscious curve of her satiny hip lay exposed to him. The robe she wore fell open at the waist exposing the fullness of her breasts above her nightgown.
Her fingers bit into his shoulders.
He trailed his fingers along the supple swells. His mouth claimed hers in a searing, promising kiss as his hand skimmed her hip.
“Ewan,” she groaned against his lips.
An intoxicated reveler bellowed his drunken displeasure beneath the chamber’s open window.
Yvette stiffened, twisting her mouth free of his. “Stop,” she cried, pushing at her nightgown, forcing his hand from her. “I . . . we can’t do this . . . . ‘Tis wrong.”
Ewan ceased his loving ministrations. Raking in ragged gulps of air, he rested his forehead against hers, trying to curb the lust raging through his body. He willed his labored breathing to return to normal, even as he commanded his body to resist the temptress lying beside him.
He drew back to look at her, then cursed silently. Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears, and her lips trembled with her effort not to cry. He raised onto his elbows. With one hand, he swept her silky hair away from her face. With his forefinger, he caught the solitary salty bead escaping from the corner of her eye.
Yvette squirmed from beneath him, then scooched across the saggy feather tick where she sat looking at him with mournful eyes. Shifting her tearful gaze away, pale cheeks dashed crimson, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I . . .” She picked at the lace trim of her gown. “I believe such intimacies are meant for . . . should be saved for marriage.”
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