The duchess tipped her head. “Perhaps the attraction is your connection with Caithness?”
Most likely. For a man of his wealth, her dowry could hardly be the lure.
“What does a connection with a duke matter if he has the prince’s ear?” Lady Pennington asked.
The countess huffed. “Assuming he does. I can check with James. He would know.”
The duchess nodded. “I’ll speak with Edward as well. Somehow . . . I just don’t trust Twiggenberry’s motives. He was far too . . .”
“Desperate,” Victoria offered, and they all nodded, because that summed it up in a word.
For her part, Lady Pennington shuddered so hard her corkscrew curls bounced. “I really hate that man,” she said.
“Would it be so terrible if you didn’t marry him?” the countess asked. “I’m fond of you and I’d like for us to be friends, but I don’t think even I could tolerate him at my table.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Neither could I.”
“She’s not marrying him,” Esmeralda said, to the shock of all. Most especially Elizabeth.
“What?” she croaked.
Victoria clapped her hands. “Oh, famous!”
“You’re not marrying him. I won’t have it. I cannot tolerate it. I thought I could, but I can’t. I am so sorry, darling. And now that Mary—”
“And Anne have gone to Kent to visit an ailing relative . . .” Victoria put in.
“It is just not going to happen.”
“Oh, thank you, dear, dear aunt!” Elizabeth leaped to her feet and pulled her aunt into a hug. “I can’t marry him. I just can’t.”
“Lady Esmeralda,” the duchess said in an arresting tone.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Do you mind if we chat with Elizabeth. In private?”
Her aunt glanced around the room and then cleared her throat. “Not at all. Come, Victoria.”
Her sister put out a lip. “But I want to hear.”
“Come.” A command Victoria could not resist. Begrudgingly, she stood and followed Esmeralda from the room.
Once the door closed, Kaitlin folded her hands on her lap. “Very well then,” she said in a businesslike tone. “Let’s review your options.”
Helena held up one finger. “Marry him and be miserable.”
“I’ve been there,” Lady Pennington said with a shudder. “You cannot choose that one.”
Elizabeth gaped at her. “But you and Lord Pennington seem so happy.”
“Not Lord Pennington,” the countess said. “Eleanor’s first husband was a beast.”
Lady Pennington took a sip of tea. “Helena, you are being unkind to beasts.”
“My apologies.”
“Just so,” Kaitlin said.
Helena smiled brilliantly. “Perhaps you could convince another man to make you pregnant?”
Lady Pennington raised her hand. “Also one of mine.”
“How did that work?” Elizabeth asked. It sounded like a wonderful plan. She had just the man in mind.
“Again, not recommended,” Lady Pennington said.
The duchess ticked off another finger. “You could always run away.”
The countess made a face. “I tried that one. I would not recommend it.”
“It worked for you,” Kaitlin insisted.
“Only by sheer chance. It is far too dangerous in this day and age.”
“Not if we helped her,” the duchess said with a smile. “And we would. Wouldn’t we?” She fixed her attention on Elizabeth. “You just came out of mourning, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” After three years of blacks and lavenders.
“Perfect. Let’s get started. If Twiggenberry follows through with his threats, we shall have no time to waste.”
Chapter Twenty
Anne found the journey to the north quite trying. For one thing, when the weather was good, the men rode their horses alongside the coach, leaving her alone, which was mind-meltingly boring. And then, when the weather was poor, they both climbed inside with her and slept. It was a symphony of snores that rattled the windows.
Occasionally one of them would stay awake and deign to speak to her. When this happened to be Hamish, the topic was always Elizabeth, but it was clear that the poor man was suffering.
While it warmed her heart to realize he truly cared for her sister, the fact that the two of them had been ripped apart was difficult for all of them.
Hamish, of course, blamed English society and went on about it endlessly.
Now and then, Anne found herself kicking Ranald in an attempt to wake him and, hence, change the topic. She had never been fond of the strictures of English society, but since she’d never intended to follow those rules, her displeasure did not signify.
The only break to the monotony was when they stopped to eat and sleep, and for Anne, these respites became the highlight of her day.
By the time they reached Yorkshire, she was going stark-staring mad. It was a relief to climb out of the carriage—even though her knees threatened to collapse—and enter the inn, which was a cheery place filled with locals and travelers enjoying a meal and the songs of a minstrel who was performing for his dinner.
“This is nice,” she said to Ranald as he came up behind her. It was certainly nicer than some of the places they’d stopped.
He grunted and guided her to the innkeeper’s desk, away from the common rooms.
She frowned at him. “I was enjoying the music.”
His expression darkened. “We will eat in the private dining room.”
“But why?”
Ranald blew out a breath and shook his head. “You are so naïve.”
It took some effort to hold back a laugh. “I most certainly am not.”
“There are some rough men in those common rooms and I dinna like the way they were looking at you.”
“They weren’t looking at me.”
“They were.” He nodded to the innkeeper’s wife and quickly made arrangements for a private meal, three rooms, and a bath for Anne.
“Ooh,” she cooed as he shooed her into the private dining room. “That was thoughtful.” A bath would be wonderful.
He nodded and sat across from her at the table as the innkeeper’s wife brought their meal. “It seemed as though you could use one.”
Well, really. Her expression must have spoken her indignation for her, because he laughed. “I only meant it would be relaxing.”
“So you’re not saying I smell like a woman who has been on the road for the better part of a week?”
He batted his lashes in a thoroughly adorable and annoying manner. “Well, there is that.”
She threw a roll at his head. It bounced off his pate. It was utterly satisfying.
“I had no idea you were such a violent wench.”
“There is much you don’t know about me.”
His features tightened as he sobered. “There is much I would like to know.”
His far-too-intimate stare caused heat to crawl up her spine. She leaned in and whispered, “This is hardly the place for such talk.”
As though to underscore her reprimand, the door burst open and Hamish, who had been helping put away the horses, stepped in. “Ah,” he boomed. “Supper.” He winked at the server and asked for an ale. As she scuttled away, he smiled at Anne. “I have to say, this is much more pleasant than the way we usually travel when we hie to the north to rescue people.”
“Really?” Anne’s tone was dry as dust. “How do you usually do so?”
“For one thing, we doona stop to eat,” Hamish said, grabbing a roll and ladling stew into his bowl. “We certainly doona stop to sleep.”
“And we doona travel in the company of a beautiful woman,” Ranald added. She could tell it was a blatant attempt to charm her from her disgruntlement. She would not allow it.
“Bower seems to think I need a bath.”
While Ranald looked chagrined, Hamish grinned and leaned in to take a sniff. When he lurched
back and wheezed, she smacked him. “You two are impossible.”
“We’re verra possible,” Ranald murmured.
Hamish chuckled. “Well, if you doona want the bath, I’ll take it.”
“The hell you will,” Ranald barked. “I’m the one who thought of it. I’ll take it.”
“Neither of you will take it,” she said primly. “It is mine and I will have it. No doubt, I shall sleep like a babe.”
“Hah,” Hamish said. “Best of luck with that. The party out there looks like it is just getting started.”
“Aye,” Ranald said. “I noticed some rough types out there.”
“You doona think we’ll have any problems, do you?” Hamish asked.
Ranald glowered at Anne. “Just keep your door locked.”
She sniffed. “I had intended to.” She wasn’t an absolute idiot.
“And doona open your door to anyone.”
“Please.” It was difficult not to roll her eyes. “I have traveled before.”
“Not for a while.” Ranald glowered darkly.
“And things have changed since then,” Hamish said, tipping his bowl and spooning the last of his stew into his mouth.
“How so?”
“Since the war,” Ranald said. “So many soldiers returned wounded and broke. Many turned to highway robbery.”
Hamish nodded dourly. “And worse.”
Such talk only made her worry about Mary more. “All right. I promise. I won’t let anyone in my room.” As though she might.
When dinner was finished, Ranald escorted her to her chamber, where her bath had been prepared. He eyed it longingly but merely made sure she had everything she needed and then left.
Before he did, he waggled his finger at her and said, “Lock your door.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, affecting a salute.
He was not amused, but she hardly cared. As soon as he was gone and her door was bolted, she turned to the steaming bath and sighed.
Heaven.
* * *
Ranald had been right about the characters in the inn.
He grimaced as another whoop wafted up through the floorboards. The revelry downstairs was only getting wilder. At one point, a drunken buffoon had clomped up the stairs and pounded on his door, demanding entry. The idiot obviously thought this was his room.
With all the noise, and worry about Anne, and thinking about Anne, and wanting Anne, he was bursting with energy and couldn’t sleep. It was a damned waste of a bed. In oh so many ways.
It turned out to be providential, though, his inability to sleep, when the idiot kept pounding on doors until someone responded . . . and that someone screamed.
It was a female scream, which had Ranald up and out in the hall in seconds, his heart pounding with anger and fear, the hair at his nape prickling.
He’d told her not to open her door. Hadn’t he? Why had she—
Oh. It wasn’t her, but a portly matron dressed in a frilly nightgown, tussling with the drunk in the hall.
Good thing that with all his pent-up energy he was in the mood for a fight.
He launched himself at the man, yanked him away from the squalling woman, whipped him around, and sank his fist into that overblown belly. A couple more blows sent the bastard reeling and when he caught his balance, he turned tail and ran down the stairs.
Ranald watched him go with a grim smile.
And then he lurched forward as he was tackled from behind. It took a moment to realize this was not another foe, but a grateful be-frilled guest. “Oh, thank you!” she wailed. “Thank you. God only knows what might have happened if you had not intervened. You are a hero, my good sir.”
Her husband, presumably—a smallish man with thinning hair—peeked out the door.
“Herbert. Herbert. He saved me.”
Herbert, for surely that was his name, edged out, checking for the miscreant, and when he did not see him, reached out a hand to Ranald. “Thank you, sir.” And then, to his wife, “Matilda. I told you not to open the door.”
“But he was banging. How can I sleep with such banging?”
“Never open the door,” Herbert said as he shooed her back into the room. He nodded at Ranald again before he closed his door and threw the bolt.
Ranald glanced around the hall. Astonishingly, no one else had opened their door, not even to see what was going on. Either they’d slept through it—which he was certain was the case with Hamish—or they had been too afraid to.
Either way, they’d been lucky. This man had only been a confused drunk. In his experience, there were others with much darker goals lurking about country inns.
With a sigh, he turned back to his room, but before he made it, he heard the creak of a door at the end of the hall and froze. He knew whose room that was. He’d been fixated on that room all night.
Slowly he turned with a glower on his face. It was difficult maintaining his ire at the sight of Anne in her white nightgown, her hair tousled and her cheeks pink.
“I told you not to open the door,” he said on a sigh.
She lifted a delicate shoulder. He tried not to focus on the way the neckline of her gown slid down with the movement. “I wanted to see what was happening.”
“Anne—”
“I was frightened.” Her expression devastated him. Indeed, she looked genuinely upset.
He’d never seen her frightened, not by anything, and the thought of it made his chest ache. “You’re safe. I promise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” He took a step toward her room, though he knew he shouldn’t. He hated the way her lip trembled. The way her eyes implored him.
Or maybe not.
“Can you stay with me for a while?” she asked, and his pulse stopped. When it started again it was with a savage throbbing he felt through his entire body. One spot in particular.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
She nibbled her lower lip, which certainly didn’t help. “Please? Just until my heart stops pounding.”
Her heart was pounding?
“I had quite a fright.”
How could he say no?
He was a gentleman, after all.
He was also a man.
A man who had wanted this woman since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
She was begging him to come to her, to stay with her.
How could he say no?
He couldn’t.
Flooded with an eerie sense of destiny, he followed her into her room, closed the door, and threw the bolt.
* * *
It should be uncomfortable, being here alone with Ranald, but it was not. For the first time this evening, Anne felt truly safe. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes as he prowled to the hearth.
He wore a long linen undershirt and a pair of loose breeks. Undoubtedly he’d not had time to dress before rushing into the hall to settle that altercation, so she could only assume this was how he slept.
For some reason, the thought sent shards of heat slicing through her.
“I . . . ah . . .” She had no idea what she intended to say, but that hardly signified, because at her words, he turned to look at her and all thoughts wafted away, replaced by an odd sort of hunger. One she never thought she’d feel again. One she’d tried so hard to bury. She turned away because the feelings were too raw. “Thank you for staying.”
“No’ a problem. I’ll sit here by the fire. You go back to bed.” This he said in a harsh tone through tight lips.
His demeanor was almost cold. She didn’t like it in the least.
Still, she crawled back into bed and pulled up the covers, but she stared at him through the shadows and flickering firelight.
It was probably not wise to stare at him, because all she could do was think about how handsome he was. How warm and kind. And how much she liked him. Really liked him. She’d never liked a man before. Not really.
But it was more than that, wasn’t it?
She
knew him.
She trusted him.
And, if she was being completely honest with herself, she wanted him.
She wanted to kiss him, caress him, know what his flesh felt like beneath her palm.
She wanted to know how he tasted.
It was all very shocking. Her entire adult life she had been free of such thoughts, such inclinations.
Somehow, this man had gotten under her skin. He’d breached her defenses, just by being kind and constant and trustworthy. Somehow, he’d touched her. Reached her.
He had certainly won her over.
But he’d also awoken something in her, a hunger she’d kept buried deep.
Ever since her devastating love affair with Kirk, she’d ignored that aching emptiness in her soul, one that made her want desperately to be part of something. To not be alone.
She could ignore it no longer.
Ranald made her want that, and more.
Would it be so wrong to give in?
She was hardly an innocent. She knew what she was about. She understood it was only a physical act, that something lasting between the two of them was highly unlikely since she lived in London and he in Halkirk.
Yes. Perhaps she should offer herself. She had no doubt he was attracted to her. That was hardly at issue.
But what if he said no?
Oh dear. What a terrible thought.
Her mind whirled with one thought and then another, swinging from one end of the pendulum to the other. She huffed a sigh and rolled over.
His chuckle rumbled through the room, sending a shiver up her spine. “Can you no’ sleep, lass?”
God. When had that accent become so attractive? Hadn’t she once hated it?
“I’m trying.” To that end, she punched her pillow, then, after a moment, rolled over again, so she could see him.
“Did the bath no’ help?”
“It was lovely.”
She stilled as a truly naughty thought rattled through her brain. It was so reminiscent of something rash her sisters might do, it almost scared her. But part of that reaction was excitement.
She cleared her throat. “The water is still warm . . . if you’d like a bath as well.”
He stilled. In the firelight, she saw a muscle bunch in his cheek. Then he leaned over and swished his fingers in the bathwater. He laughed again. “Liar.”
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