Drawing his mouth to hers, for she yearned for the caress of his lips on hers, she heard his muted chuckle. She opened her dazed eyes to see his smile.
Before she could speak, he whispered, “For a woman who professes to abhor her husband, you are dazzling in my arms.”
“I don’t abhor you,” she answered as quietly. Each word fought its way through her breathlessness. Rufling the russet hair along his forehead, she whispered, “Actually, I like some things about you very much.”
“My teasing you?”
She shook her head as her fingertip traced the uncompromising lines of his face.
“My insistence that you assist me in my work?”
“Certainly not that!” she retorted, but she laughed. The sound vanished into a sigh as her finger touched his lips, which she wanted to feel against her again.
“Then what?”
Looking up into his eyes that burned with the longing within her, she brought his mouth to hers. In the moment before her eyes closed, she saw a spark of satisfaction in his. She tensed before his touch urged her to melt against him. Knowing that she was letting him make a doodle of her, she pushed every thought from her mind. She wanted to believe that—for this one moment when he held her and kissed her with such passion—he was not using her to gain his own ends.
Again.
Chapter Eight
James wiped his forehead with his sleeve and stood to survey their handiwork. The axle looked as if it would hold this time. Glaring at Cameron, he wondered how his usually clever sergeant could have failed to notice the crack in the axle. If their fortune turned much more sour, he doubted the traitor would ever be apprehended.
Cameron wore an anxious expression that furrowed his forehead as he scanned the otherwise empty road. James’s hand went to the pistol beneath his coat before he could halt it. He understood Cameron’s disquiet all too well. Since they had learned that Duffie and his fellow caterans had been paid to seek out the Montcrief carriage and slay anyone they found inside, he had known another attack could be forthcoming at any moment. Montcrief was apparently dead, but Romayne remained alive. But was the enemy Montcrief’s or hers? Until he knew, he could not relax his guard over her.
“Call to the ladies,” he ordered, motioning to where the women were sitting in the sun on a stile.
“Aye, sir.”
“Don’t blame Cameron for this,” Thatcher said as he wiped grease on his filthy breeches. “Too heavy a load for this carriage caused the axle to break.”
James smiled as he folded his arms and looked at the collection of boxes in the boot. By gravy! It felt remarkable to have the use of both hands again. “It’s not too many more leagues to Westhampton Hall, is it?”
“At our pace, a day’s travel, maybe two.”
“I’ll be glad to be there.”
Thatcher bent to check the axle as he grumbled something.
“What did you say?” James asked.
No smile eased the tension in his eyes as he said, “I said I wouldn’t be so eager to get there if I were you.” He looked along the road.
James followed his gaze to see Romayne laughing with Ellen. “The duke will have to accustom himself to the fact his granddaughter married me.”
“The duke is not accustomed to accustoming himself to anything but to what he wishes.”
“So Romayne comes by her stubborn streak from him, I would guess.”
Thatcher stood and dropped the tools in a box. “His Grace is even less willing to bend to the will of others than Lady Romayne.” He flushed before climbing to store the box atop the carriage. “Watch your step with him.”
“I intend to do just that, and he would be wise to watch his step with me.”
Cameron chuckled under his breath, but became somber when James glared at him. His sergeant should know that no irascible old man—duke, though he might be—would stand in the way of them completing their work.
“She mentioned His Grace was a military man himself,” Cameron said. “Mayhap he would understand if you were honest with him.”
“Would you be understanding if you were told your granddaughter had married only to help the government?”
Again the round man laughed. “It is certain to be an interesting welcome, sir.”
“I hope so.” He smiled coldly, but sorrow filled his eyes as he looked back to where Romayne and Ellen were nearing the carriage. “I certainly hope so, or this marriage and all the heartache it is bound to cause will have been for naught.”
Romayne was sure nothing had ever looked as wonderful as Westhampton Hall as Thatcher steered the carriage along the wide road leading to the front door. The ancient stones glittered in the bright, spring sunshine. So many times she had come home to this ancient house, but no homecoming was as joyous as this one.
Every muscle she possessed recalled the journey from Struthcoille. Their trip had been delayed twice: once, two days before, when the axle had broken, and James, Thatcher, and Cameron had spent a whole afternoon repairing it; then yesterday, one of the horses had picked up a stone in its hoof. That had been dealt with quickly, but had delayed them long enough to miss reaching an inn before a twilight storm had drenched them through the broken roof of the carriage. The thick scent of wet wool had haunted them all day, for their clothes had no time to dry before they had to return to their uncomfortable seats this morning.
Romayne looked at her fellow travelers. Grange had wilted with each passing mile, like a fragile blossom which had been left too long in the brilliant sunshine. Aunt Dora was asleep, her mouth gaping, but without the snores that usually accompanied the abigail’s naps. Cameron rubbed his back as he sat with his legs out the open door. His low whistle was tuneless and jarred Romayne nearly as much as the chuckholes in the road.
Only Ellen was smiling. No amount of hardship had lessened her excitement with coming south to have a chance to meet the Polite World. Looking out the window, she tried to keep Nokkums calm.
Romayne shook her head wearily. The pup had been trouble from the beginning of the trip, barking at everything they passed, but Ellen had been adamant about not leaving him behind. As they had passed the paddocks of Westhampton Hall, the dog yelped at the horses. Her smile vanished at the derogatory glances aimed at them by the estate workers.
Thatcher drew back on the reins to bring the carriage to a stop. The carriage rocked as James leapt from the seat. When James held his hand up to Romayne, she let him help her out of the cramped carriage.
“Stiff?” he asked when she turned to take Nokkums’s leash while Ellen scrambled out.
“I don’t think I ever want to go more than ten inches from Westhampton Hall again.” She tried to smile, but her fatigue prevented her from doing anything but sighing.
He put his arm around her waist and motioned to Thatcher and Cameron to help the other women out. Pausing only long enough to warn his cousin that the pup must go with Thatcher to the stables, he asked, “Shall we go?”
Romayne looked at the grand front doors of the house and took a deep breath. “Please say nothing until I judge my grandfather’s state of mind,” she said as they climbed the steps in unison. “If you say the wrong thing …”
“I understand.”
Her smile finally appeared, but it was a wry one. “I don’t think you do. No one can until they meet Grandfather.”
“Dearie, I have been dressed down by the toughest officers the Regent can claim in his army. Your grandfather can be no worse.”
“No?”
He whirled her into his arms, and she gasped as the firm length of his legs pressed through her damp gown. “How could he be such an ogre when his granddaughter is so lovely that she makes her husband wish their marriage was something other than an out-and-outer?”
“James, this is not the time for such words.”
“Why does the truth frighten you so much?”
“I’m not frightened.”
“Not of your grandfather?”
�
�No.”
“Not of me?”
Her voice was fainter. “No.”
“Not of our passion?” He captured her mouth, kissing her hard and deeply. His strong arms pressed her to his firm chest so tightly she could feel the throb of his heart.
When his tongue stroked hers, she curled her hand around his high collar. She wanted more of this fiery sweetness that swirled through her with the power of the blizzard’s blast.
He sighed as he lifted his lips away from hers. “Why do you have to be so tempting, dearie?”
“James—”
Putting his finger to her lips, he said, “First, we must deal with your grandfather.”
Romayne nodded, adjusting her bonnet, which had been knocked awry by his eagerness. She berated herself as she walked with him toward the doors. Thinking that James would be distracted from his task was just more proof that she wanted for sense.
The door opened as she was reaching for the latch. Happiness coursed through her when she saw Clayson’s thin face. Before she could speak, the butler ordered, “Take that vehicle out of here. If you have something to sell, go back to the kitchen door. I—”
“Clayson!” she interrupted gently. “Is this any way to welcome me home?”
He stared at her in disbelief as he opened the door to allow them into the foyer. He tried to speak as he saw the others, but no sound emerged from his mouth. His shock told her that, with her ripped bonnet and her clothes damp and smelly, she looked far worse than she had thought.
Swallowing roughly, the butler choked out, “Lady Romayne, we thought—we feared—that is, I shall announce you to His Grace.”
Before the butler could move, a supercilious voice called from the balcony overlooking the foyer. “Clayson, what is that hubbub? You know this is my hour for quiet reflection.”
Romayne fought to silence her happy laughter. She was home! Grandfather’s quiet reflection was most often spent with a bottle of brandy in his private chamber or in his bookroom. Looking up, she felt tears edging along her face as she met the duke’s eyes which were widening in shock.
“Your Grace,” Clayson replied, trying to keep some order in the foyer, “Lady Romayne is—”
His words vanished beneath the duke’s shout. “Blum!”
His bodyservant appeared out of the shadows to help the duke down the stairs. When Romayne saw how much her grandfather had to depend on the strong lad, she wanted to run to him and assist him on each riser. To do that would shame her grandfather, and she must not do that.
She searched his face, but he kept his eyes lowered as he negotiated the steps. She hoped that that was not a sign he was feeble, but that he was trying to avoid meeting her eyes and revealing the state of his mind on her unheralded return. Grandfather wished the upper hand in any encounter, and for once she was willing to grant it to him. She had been a gawney to hike off with Bradley.
When the duke reached the parquet floor of the entry hall, Romayne dipped in a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she whispered. She heard a rustle behind her and knew that the others were bowing as well.
“Romayne,” choked her grandfather. Gripping her shoulders in his bony hands, he pulled her into his arms. “Child, I thought you were dead. When I got no message from Grange and no answer from the queries I made for you—” His voice broke as he squeezed her tighter. Stepping back, he smiled, rearranging the canyons engraved into his face by age. He scrutinized her from head to foot, then demanded in his normal, blustery tone, “Where in the blazes have you been? When—?”
“Grandfather, I—”
“What is the meaning of this parade of hobs?” he demanded, looking past her. With a cursory nod of thanks to Grange and another to Thatcher, he ordered, “Rise instead of cowering about like a collection of mindless fools. Where did you find these people, Romayne? Did you gather them for some reason? If they assisted you in returning home—and I vow that I expect answers about all of this before this day comes to a close—tell Clayson what reward you wish them to receive and send them on their way.” He gave an indifferent wave toward Ellen, who was looking at Romayne in incredulity. “Do it quickly, child. I do not want such black beetles in my home.”
Silence became uncomfortable in the second before Romayne said softly, “Grandfather, first it might be wise for all of us to retire to talk of this.”
“All of us?” he repeated, his bushy, white brows punctuating his frown.
“Please let us talk where we may have some privacy.” She glanced at Clayson who was listening, not hiding his avid curiosity.
The duke shook his head. “I refuse to have these clumpertons running tame about my house. Rid yourself of them, Romayne, and come with me.”
“I cannot.”
“What—?” The old man stared at her in astonishment.
She could understand her grandfather’s thoughts as easily as if he had spoken them. He had not expected her to be so stubborn when she had not been under his roof for more than a few minutes, and he was curious about what hold the newcomers had over her. She longed to reassure him, but she refused to speak of such delicate and complicated matters before the servants, who soon would be spreading the tale of her adventures in Scotland about the countryside. The longer she could delay that, the better.
Turning from her grandfather, she said in a serene voice, “Clayson, please escort Miss Dunbar and her mother upstairs. Grange will arrange with you the quarters that she feels are best suited to them. Thatcher, I know you wish to tend to the horses. I assume you can find Nokkums a place in the stables where he will be comfortable tonight.”
“Yes, Lady Romayne,” Thatcher said, his gaze sliding from her to her grandfather.
“Then do so,” Romayne said sharply. When she saw the gratitude in the groom’s eyes, she knew he understood she was freeing him from having to witness the explosion yet to come.
“Your Grace?” asked Clayson uneasily as the door closed behind the groom. He wrung his hands together, clearly shaken as Romayne had never seen him.
The duke’s scowl added more lines to his face. “Romayne, I would prefer you to use your tongue to give me answers instead of giving orders to my household.”
“Grandfather, please.” She started to reach for his hands, then pulled them back as his frown threatened to quail her determination to persuade him to listen to her. Wanting to look to James, she sighed. His silence meant he would give her no assistance—and he was correct, for, as she had warned him by the carriage, anything he said or did would enrage her grandfather more. “We would like to speak with you in private.”
“We?”
“Grandfather, please,” she repeated.
Whether her beseeching tone touched his heart or he had grown tired of quarreling with her in front of the servants, the duke nodded. He ordered her to join him in his bookroom. With his hand on Blum’s arm, he hobbled toward the stairs, not looking back to see if she would obey, for she knew he was certain she would.
“Go with Grange, Ellen,” Romayne urged in a whisper. “Take your mother with you.”
“If you wish, I shall go with you,” the young woman said.
“No.” She shuddered as she imagined her grandfather’s ire if everyone followed him into his bookroom. “Grange will see you settled. Ring for a bath if you wish.”
“Are we staying?”
Romayne did not answer as she motioned for James to come with her. She thought she saw one of his eyes close in a lazy wink. Torn between fury at his insolence and amusement at his irreverence, she hoped that she had been mistaken about his expression. There was nothing amusing about this situation.
The duke said nothing when James joined them in the dimly lit room. The old man stood in silence while Romayne led James across the dark carpet to reach the uncomfortable furniture in front of the huge hearth. Sitting at his table, where he presided over the estate’s business, he waited for Blum to leave and close the door before he looked at James.
“I assume you, sir, are part
of whatever it is that my granddaughter wishes to explain to me out of earshot of the staff.”
“I am afraid I am most of what Romayne wishes to explain to you,” James answered with the same grim expression as the old man wore.
“By your accent, I would guess you are from Itchland.”
James’s lips tightened, but his voice remained tranquil. “You are correct if you are suggesting that I am from Scotland.”
“What’s your name?”
“James MacKinnon.”
“And that ragged bunch?” demanded the duke. “Are they your family?”
“Yes, Your Grace. My aunt, my cousin, and my man, who are here at the invitation of your granddaughter.”
With a grimace, he turned to Romayne, who had been listening while she let the fire warm her damp clothes. She wished she could melt the coldness within her with the same ease. Meeting her grandfather’s glower evenly, she struggled to keep emotion from her face. The Duke of Westhampton admired strength, especially in his granddaughter.
“Did you have a reason to invite these Scottish gypsies into our home?” her grandfather asked.
The fire seemed to leap from the hearth to her face, and she prayed she was not blushing. “Yes, Grandfather. James saved my life, and—”
“And you felt obligated to bring these strangers home with you?”
“They aren’t strangers.” She swallowed unevenly, then squared her shoulders. “Grandfather, they are family, too, because James is my husband.”
“Your husband? Don’t be ridiculous, Romayne! You are my granddaughter. You can’t marry a Scottish bumpkin.”
Romayne kept her voice from wavering. “James is my husband, Grandfather.”
“Bah! I shall have this unnatural match annulled.”
“Grandfather, James and I are married. You must accept that. We …” Her voice trailed off as the old man affixed his glare on James again.
“First you had that useless Montcrief panting after you, and you ran away with him like a common strumpet. Now you come back from that escapade and tell me that you have taken this Itchlander for your husband.”
The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1) Page 11