“Er, of course.” Bloody hell, romantic. How did that signify? This was a partnership. In return for his protection, she would become his countess, no more, no less. Nonetheless he was pleased to see her mood had changed and he didn’t want to disabuse her of any notion that cast a happy glow on her face.
“Romantic,” he muttered. “Right.”
* * *
How had it happened? An incredulous Simone leaned against the door frame of the cabin she shared with Temple and looked out over the mundane, everyday activities in the yard of the outpost.
Baptiste gutted fish over by the gate, and Daniel was standing in the door of the warehouse while Musdoos and several other Indians walked away from him with their arms full of blankets. Lisette wrung out linens by the garden with a grubby faced Polly hanging onto her skirts. Out of sight, the crack of tortured timber rent the air as Temple chopped wood.
And she, Simone Dougherty, was going to become a countess. And not just any countess, but Temple’s countess. The thought stunned her. How had she, a workhouse orphan, come to this? What had compelled her to take refuge in Temple’s trunk? What had compelled her to offer the whereabouts of his package in return for him taking her with him to North America? Stranger still, what had compelled him to agree? And now, to offer her, a nobody, nay, worse than nobody, his name in marriage?
An unwelcome thought niggled its way into her mind. A lark, he had called it.
What if he had offered her marriage in order to disturb his family and disrupt their social circle? He would not stoop to something so low as to use her as a pawn? Would he? Nay, she decided, shoving away the unwanted idea, it could not be.
Oy, Simone, ye be the luckiest chit on this bloody earth.
A giggle burst loose from her chest and drifted away on the air. Temple would be appalled at the diction of her thoughts after all his hard work. But they were her thoughts and couldn’t be heard by him or anybody. Furthermore, she would keep it that way. She may well be street rubbish but she vowed to do him proud.
And, dare she say it, she would be free to love him and earn his love back. There. She wanted his love and she would do all in her power to earn it.
She swept her deepest, very best curtsy to an imaginary Temple before going back inside to shake out the bed furs.
* * *
Darkness shadowed the cabin by the time Temple returned. Simone had lit the one and only oil lamp while she mended a pair of his breeches at the table and the insignificant flame barely conquered the shadowed corners of the room. It was a warm, homely little tableau and with a contented heart, he sat down across from her.
“Thanks to the voyageurs that came in yesterday, we are able to leave in several days. I must thank Daniel somehow for it’s his doing that we’re able to depart so quickly and avoid a long and tedious winter here.”
“It’s going to be a long journey,” she sighed, before biting off the thread.
“Well, actually, no. We’re not going through Montreal. We’ll head west, travelling down the Fraser River then over to the Columbia River to follow that to Fort Astoria, on the Pacific Ocean. Then we’ll sail to England around Cape Horn. We’ll be home by early summer.”
“Still a long journey, just not so much by land. Which suits me,” she added airily. “I don’t have a problem with sea sickness.” Oy, did she just tease him? How does one speak to an earl, anyway? Even a soon-to-be-her-husband earl.
“Right.” He shuddered. “Terrible stuff. Incidentally, I’ve changed my mind about marrying.” He stopped to lean over and brush a wood chip from his leg.
“Oh,” she squeaked.
The bottom dropped out of her heart. It hadn’t taken him long to change his mind. Of course, he had gotten his wits about him. Of course it had been a jest at her expense. Her face must have betrayed her because he jumped in right away with an explanation.
“On board ship. Rather, I believe we’ll be able to find an Anglican priest in Fort Astoria.”
Her heart started beating again. She sucked in a huge, life-giving breath and fanned her face.
“You thought I was going to change my mind? Not on your life. I may be a scoundrel but I do keep my word.” He chuckled, a humourless sound sending chills up her back. “No, Mother will have far less quarrel with my marriage if it’s actually performed in the Church of England. I am taking secure measures, is all.”
Simone nodded as she took a long appraising look at his shadowed face. With the fire light dancing on it, he looked saturnine, cold, a creature of the night. It was as if his impending return to civilization brought out the wild beast in him rather than the other way around. She shivered. This was a part of Temple she hadn’t seen at all.
She wasn’t sure she liked it.
Chapter Fifteen
True to his word, upon their arrival in Fort Astoria six weeks later, Temple tracked down a Vicar Williams.
Within a matter of hours, Simone found herself standing, clad in her rumpled, soiled dress and muddy boots, in the common room of a local inn that doubled as a church. The only thing remotely clean about her was her shawl, which she draped over her shoulders in an effort to hide as much of the travel stains as she could. Two of the six voyageurs who had travelled with them from Stuart Lake Outpost, Alain and Guillaume, acted as witnesses, while the others stood behind. All in all, a bedraggled little group but sincere nonetheless.
“Dearly beloved,” began the vicar, “we are gathered here in the sight of God.”
She focused her gaze on the man, trying to follow the ceremony but the dreamlike situation, not his words, held her attention. While Vicar Williams droned on about the responsibilities of marriage through thick lips and stained teeth, all she could think was that this was some kind of joke and that Temple would call a halt to the proceedings once he came to his senses.
She peeked at Temple, standing so solemnly beside her. His face was a stone mask, as if he listened intently to every word and took them to heart. At the movement of her head, he glanced down at her. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly and his eyes crinkled in the beginnings of a smile but his sombre expression returned at the priest’s next words.
“Do you, er,” the man fumbled with the prayer book in his hand, searching for the paper with their names, “er, Temple Wellington, take this woman to be your wife,”
Simone held her breath. This was his chance to deny her and to walk away. Would he?
“I do.”
The simple declaration shattered the air and her doubts. The conviction with which Temple said the words boosted her confidence and she turned back to face the priest.
“Do you, Simone Dougherty, take this man to be your husband.”
“I do,” she whispered. “I do,” she repeated, louder this time so that all within the little inn could hear her. Her lips quivered and she tried to still them, squeezing them tightly together.
The vicar began droning on again. Simone had difficulty following him, so full of disbelief was she over the phrase she had just uttered. I do. Two small words yet enormous in their implication.
“Do you have the ring?” Vicar Williams asked, the abrupt question bringing Simone back to the proceedings at hand.
The ring. Simone cast a horrified look to Temple only to see him pull a gold signet ring out of his pocket.
He slid it on her finger. It was big and heavy and no sooner had he placed it than it swivelled around so that it hung upside down. She squeezed her fingers around it, a solid and reassuring lump nestled in the crease between her palm and fingers.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
To the cheers and whistles of their companions, Temple leaned over and placed a chaste little kiss on her cheek. Bemused, Simone gazed around the rough room with its hand hewn flooring and log walls, plank tables and backless benches. It certainly didn’t resemble the churches at home, but then had she ever expected to be married in a church.
Or married, period.
&nbs
p; She looked back up to her groom. Much to her astonishment, he radiated happiness. It swirled about him in an ever-increasing cloud that soon enveloped her too. Her heart swelled and her lips broke into a smile.
Grinning like an idiot, she stood there and lost herself in the endless depths of his eyes. Eyes beckoning to her, promising her a lifetime together. Fanciful thoughts, to be sure, but marriage was forever, was it not? Had those words not crawled through her consciousness during Vicar Williams’ ramblings—until death do you part?
They stood for what felt an eternity although in reality perhaps only one or two moments passed before Alain poked Temple in the ribs.
“Monsieur, you devour your wife with your eyes but may I suggest you save that for later? The inn keeper’s wife comes now with your wedding feast, and we are hungry, oui?”
Temple held her gaze for one last second before he turned away to shout, “Ale to all! Come, Madame Innkeeper, come with your finest ale. Fill the cups and keep them full until not one man is left standing.”
Cheers filled the rafters and the wedding feast began.
* * *
“Come,” Temple whispered in Simone’s ear several hours later. “I tire of these rapscallions, charming though they be.” He squeezed her hand. “Come, Madame Innkeeper assures me our room is ready and a bath awaits.”
“A bath?” Simone echoed stupidly, glancing down at the unusual sight of her small head grasped within his very large one.
“Aye, a bath. You know, a tub filled with warm water accompanied by soap and towels?” Temple’s droll voice made her giggle. “Oh, and usually a maid or some such helpmeet but sadly, I will have to suffice,” he added.
“A bath,” she repeated.
“I assure you, a bath can be a pleasant diversion.”
“Of course.” It wasn’t the idea of a bath filling her with apprehension. It was what would follow. Don’t be silly, she chided herself. He’s had you already. Despite her nervousness, she thrilled with the thought of feeling him again, of feeling him plunge into her, taking her to the very precipice of wonder.
“You go ahead. We have the room on the left.” He gave her a gentle nudge toward the steep staircase leading up to the sleeping quarters. “I’ll divert our guests so no one will take note of your departure.”
Alas, a quiet exit wasn’t to be. To a chorus of masculine voices singing a ribald tune interspersed with whistles and cat calls, Simone climbed the stairs. Certain her face flamed so that it could almost light her way in the dark, she thankfully reached the second floor to find that Temple hadn’t lied—they had the room on the left, in fact the only room.
To her right, an open loft littered with furs, bed rolls and several sleeping bodies. Against the back wall stood a few barrels and crates and what she now recognized as beaver pelts draped over the crates. Sibilant snores resonated, reminding her of the shared sleeping accommodations at the workhouse and it brought a twinge of wistfulness to her breast.
An image of Mrs Dougherty rose and she could almost hear her reproving voice, “Now, we’ll have no fightin’—this be a place to sleep.” And the pushing and shoving would continue amongst the giggling girls until, at length, the woman would threaten to withhold their breakfasts. A slight smile at the memory ghosted across her lips before she pushed open the door to the room she and Temple would share that night.
All thoughts cleared her mind when she saw the tub, steaming lazily, in the middle of the floor. Actually, it was the floor—the tub barely fit between the bed and the wall of the tiny room.
The flame from the candle stub jammed into a bottle swathed with the wax of countless candles fluttered briefly on the upended keg that served as bedside table as the door creaked shut behind her. It fluttered again as the door creaked open again. She felt the presence of Temple behind her, not even needing to turn around as his musky scent filled the room, knowing it was him.
“Simone?” His languid voice filled her ears and she could feel his breath brush against her cheek.
She turned to face him, keeping her features expressionless, hoping he couldn’t see the pounding of her heart through her blouse. Though how could he not, for it thumped so hard it felt as if it might leap out of her very chest to lie exposed, still beating, on the floor at his feet.
“The inn keeper’s wife pressed these upon me,” he said, holding out two fluffy white towels, incongruous in the rustic surroundings. “She assures me they were not gotten by ill means. Something about payment for lodging from a ship’s captain seeking a night away from his crew.”
“They’re lovely,” she stammered, reaching out to stroke them. Inadvertently, her fingers touched his and she flinched.
He must have seen that, for he lifted his eyebrows before giving her a sensuous smile.
“Aye, and she gave me this to give to you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sliver of soap. “It’s all she has but knowing it is our wedding night, she wanted something a little special for you.” He handed it to her and she took it in trembling fingers.
“Thank you. I gave my soap to Lisette.” She held it up to her nose, catching a faint scent of lemon verbena. “It’s lovely.” She balanced it carefully on the edge of the tub.
“If you say so,” Temple shrugged. “But the scent of a pine forest clean and fresh after the rain is much more to my liking.”
Simone blinked. Of course he had a favourite scent, everyone did, but it made her realize how little she actually knew about the man even after all the time spent in close quarters with him. Somehow favourite scents did not signify when battling to save one’s life against the elements.
“Well, get on with it”, he said. “Before the water grows cold.”
“Of course,” she stammered. “Will you turn your back?”
“No, Simone, I will not.”
Of course he wouldn’t, he was now her husband and as such, he took command of her life. She gritted her teeth. Very well, if he wanted to watch, then so be it. “Could you at least turn your back while I remove my clothes?”
He didn’t answer, merely tipped his dark head in agreement before turning around.
She looked at his tall back, at the tanned skin peeking out between the collar of his loose fitting shirt and his queue. It wasn’t the mode, she knew, rather, his hair should curl about his collar, but it had grown long and he had taken to tying it back.
If she stood on her tiptoes, perhaps, she could brush the queue aside and plant a kiss on his exposed neck. She took a half-step toward him before squashing the urge and turning back to the tub. Quickly, before she changed her mind, she stripped off her clothes down to her shift and stepped into the steaming water.
Ah, what heaven to feel the liquid warmth, to feel the waves of goose bumps rippling along her skin as she slowly immersed herself. She gripped the edge of the tub, sliding down, down, into the water. Her shift floated about her and she toyed with the idea of ripping it off.
“Take it off,” a husky voice commanded from behind her.
He had read her thoughts. She froze but of their own volition, her hands crept to the hem and she pulled it off, bit by sticky bit until finally she sat naked, wet cloth dripping from her hands. Face hot with embarrassment, she lowered her eyes.
He reached over her shoulder and she could see his arm snake out to take the sodden fabric from her hands, tossing it carelessly aside. It landed with a soft slap.
“Temple,” she whispered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grab the soap. Seconds later, his hands caressed her shoulder blades, calloused yet strangely gentle, smoothing down her back only to trail back up to her neck. She shivered, hypnotized by the sensation of his fingers gliding along her skin.
“Simone.” His breath fanned her shoulders. “Wet your hair. I’ll wash it for you.”
Nodding, she obeyed, smoothing her hair off her forehead with shaking fingers before tilting her head back and sliding a bit further down. Unfortunately, by the time her hair was submerged, her k
nees had shot out of the water and she felt a bit silly.
Not only had her knees emerged but so too had her breasts and she looked up to see a motionless Temple stare at them hungrily. A whoosh of air escaped his nose, the nostrils flaring with its passing. Then a slow, lazy smile spread across his face and he began to rub his hands briskly over the soap to work up lather.
“Sit up,” he commanded and she obliged, his hands caressing her as he leaned closer into her back. She relaxed, more at ease because as long as he knelt behind her, she couldn’t see his eyes and she felt less exposed.
“Oh,” she sighed as he began to massage the bubbles through her hair, piling it on top of her head in one soapy mass. She let her head flop forward and he began to knead her neck, slowly, rubbing in ever increasing circles, over her shoulder blades, then her shoulders and upper arms, then her collar bone.
She looked down to see his hands slow, then stop just above her breasts. He was close behind her, his cheek almost nestled into hers. Ensnared by the sight of his tanned hands against the ivory of her skin, she said nothing, just watched, hypnotized as his hands moved again to curve around her breasts and cup them. Fascinated, she watched as her nipples hardened when his thumb and index fingers tweaked the rosy nubs.
“Oh,” she sighed again, amazed by the sensation. Much to her surprise, her hands, as if separate from her mind, rose to curl around his. Suspended in time, she sat, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts cupped in his hands cupped again by hers. As if to break the spell, a dollop of soap fell from her hair and landed in the water between her knees. She shivered.
“You’re cold,” whispered Temple. “Let me rinse you off. That will warm you.”
Beyond speech, Simone nodded, dropping her hands and feeling strangely bereft as he pulled his hands off her breasts. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder to see him lean over to pick up her shift. She lowered her eyes, peeking at him through her lashes, seeing him dip the shift into the water and wring it out experimentally.
The Countess' Lucky Charm Page 14