He spared her a brief glance and small smile. “Cold?”
“I’m not the one who stood out without a coat,” she reminded him. “You’re drenched.”
And rather adorable with it, she thought. The dark locks of his hair were beginning to curl up at the ends.
He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll dry out soon enough.”
“The water is receding quickly,” she commented, for lack of courage to say anything else. “Will we be able to cross soon, do you think?”
“Within the hour.”
She pressed the toes of her foot into the rain-soaked ground and watched as the mud oozed around the leather of her boot. “Are you all right, Gideon?”
“Yes.” He nodded and gave her a fleeting look. “Yes, I’m fine.”
He didn’t sound fine. He looked and sounded just as he had when she’d met him by the pond the morning after she’d woken him from his nightmare—tired, troubled, and distant.
She remembered that he hadn’t cared to be pressed then, and that a silly conversation and a bit of laughter had seemed to make him feel better. The first she could manage, despite her raging curiosity, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything funny to say now.
Not until Gideon turned to her and said, “I imagine Lilly had a few question for you upon your return to the carriage.”
Oh, perfect. She smiled at him as if they were sharing a private joke. “About our disagreement and subsequent reconciliation? Indeed she did.”
“A disagreement,” he repeated, and just as she hoped, the first hint of humor tinted his voice. “Is that what happened?”
“Don’t you recall? I am of the opinion that sheep raised in Scotland are the finest to be had in the world. You insisted they could not compare to English mutton.” She tsked at him. “You were quite unreasonable on the matter.”
He sent her a dubious glance. “Is that truly what you told Lilly?”
“She didn’t ask for the particulars of our argument,” she admitted and felt a blush begin to form on her cheeks. “It was the kiss that caused her some distress.”
He closed his eyes and swore. “Bloody hell, she saw.”
“Yes.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “She assures me you’ll make an adequate husband.”
His eyes flew open, and an abrupt choking sound emerged from his throat and was directly followed by the draining of all the color from his face. He garbled, “Beg your pardon,” or something near to it, and then stared at her as if she’d grown a second head.
Stunned, she stared back. She hadn’t expected him to believe the jest, but that was of minor concern compared to his severe, and decidedly unflattering, reaction to the notion they were betrothed.
He is the brother of a marquess.
Suddenly, she no longer needed to bite her cheek to keep her amusement in check. She did, however, have to fight to keep her feet in place as every fear of rejection, every doubt of her worth flooded to the surface. Her chest grew tight. Her eyes stung. She wanted to slink back to the carriage in defeat and give in to the sudden and humiliating urge to cry.
But not before she hit him. Hard.
Only the memory of how disoriented, how lost, he had been only a half hour ago kept her from doing either. He wasn’t quite himself. Some allowance could be made under the circumstances. Patience was warranted . . . Some patience . . . A little patience.
She couldn’t let the insult pass completely unanswered, could she?
She forced her demeanor into one of mild interest.
“You look rather wan all of a sudden, Gideon. Are you of a delicate constitution as well?”
“I . . . What? No, Winnefred—”
“How fortunate we should have so much in common,” she chimed sweetly. “Perhaps Lilly is right and we’ll make a respectable go of it. I must confess, I did have my doubts.”
Her saccharine tone must have filtered slowly through his panicked mind because it was a few moments before the working of his mouth was accompanied by any sound.
“You’re jesting,” he finally managed and blew out a quick, hard breath of obvious relief. “You’re not serious.”
“Clever as well,” she said dryly. “What a lucky woman I am, to have landed such a catch.”
“I . . .” He winced, twice. “I deserved that.”
“Yes. You did.”
He lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “In my defense, it isn’t often a gentleman obtains the hand of such an estimable lady with so little effort. It was quite overcome by the extent of my good fortune.”
She tilted her head at him, unamused. “Too much for your delicate constitution?”
“Exactly so.”
“We shall have to break the engagement, then, until you are able to comprehend the joy of it without tossing up your accounts.”
He adopted a sheepish expression. “If I tossed them up now, would you forgive me?”
Despite the hurt and anger, that surprised a small laugh out of her.
“I could probably manage it,” he continued. “The heartbreak of having won and lost the hand of such a lady so quickly—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” The edge of her anger dulled, just a little, as the sound of his laughter blended with her own reluctant amusement.
He cocked his head at her as the laughter faded. “Does this mean I am forgiven?”
She wanted to say no. She wanted to demand he explain what, exactly, was so appalling about the notion of marrying her. But she couldn’t do it. Not now, when he was finally sounding like himself again.
She swallowed her wounded feelings but this time, she couldn’t completely ignore the heavy weight of them in her stomach.
“Forgiven,” she agreed. But she would be wise not to forget.
Chapter 21
Winnefred tried and failed to stay awake for the remainder of the afternoon. It was still early when they reached the next inn and after a change into dry clothes and a hot meal, she found the allure of a soft bed too powerful to resist. She slept through the rest of the afternoon and evening. When next she woke, the room was dark except for the dim glow of coals in the grate and silent but for the sound of Lilly’s steady breathing next to her.
She closed her eyes and tried to will herself back to sleep, but gave the effort up as futile after a few minutes. Resigned to being awake, she rose quietly from the bed and went to the window to peek through the drapes.
The light of a half moon illuminated the yard outside, and she watched as a late arriving guest was relieved of his horse by a pair of stable hands. She felt the soft thud of the front door vibrate beneath her feet and wondered if the night would be so busy in London. Gideon’s aunt lived in a house, not an inn, but that house sat on a city street, and there was no telling what sort of activity might run up and down that road.
Thoughts of late night parades outside her window were lost as the sound of a low moan filtered through the wall.
Gideon.
Winnefred glanced at the bed, half expecting the soft noise to have woken her friend, but Lilly remained still, her breathing shallow and even.
She chewed on her lip, uncertain what to do.
The memory of his horrified reaction to the news of their betrothal flashed through her mind. So did the memory of his fingers caressing her cheek as they kissed in the rain. She recalled how he had backed away from her on their walk from the prison and again at the Howards’ dinner party. And she thought of how he had barely left her side for the last two days. He was thoughtful and generous and capable of such tenderness . . . And he had cut her deeply.
And the man said she was a puzzle.
Gideon moaned again, prompting her to action. She grabbed her wrap, pushed her arms through her sleeves, and headed for the door. She gave a passing thought to leaving a note for Lilly before discarding the idea. There was simply no way of saying, Have gone to Gideon’s room, be back shortly, that wouldn’t send her friend into a pani
c. She’d simply have to hope Lilly slept through her absence.
The hall was devoid of life, which was convenient. It was also devoid of light, which left her feeling her way to Gideon’s door. She tapped softly at first, then with more force when she heard his groan through the wood followed by a single word.
“Cannons.”
Then the groaning stopped and there was a long moment of silence.
She knocked again and wondered that the pounding of her heart alone didn’t wake him.
“A moment.” Gideon’s voice was muted and distinctly annoyed. “Give me a moment.”
She waited, listening to him move about the room. He stumbled over something and swore ripely, and then the door opened and he was standing before her in trousers and shirtsleeves. The soft glow of the fireplace flickered behind him and spilled into the hall.
“Winnefred?” He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, as if he couldn’t quite tell if he was awake or asleep. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“The walls in this inn are thin. I heard you call out.”
“You heard . . .” He trailed off and dragged a hand down his face. She’d never seen him look so tired. “Bloody hell.”
He had sworn more today than in the entire time they had been acquainted, she thought sadly.
“Are you going to invite me in?” As she’d hoped, the bold request took him off guard. He released the grip he’d had on the door, and she pushed it open and brushed past him to step into the room.
He reached for her arm. “You can’t be in here.”
“I am in here,” she returned, sidestepping him, “and unless you want someone to see me in here, I suggest you close the door.”
It took considerable effort to instill a confident tone in her speech and manner. There were knots in her stomach and a flurry of doubts swirling in her head. Maybe she was taking the wrong approach by barging her way into his room, but she had to do something. She had tried giving him his privacy, and she had tried pushing him into action. It was the latter that had produced results at the bridge.
Determined, she stood in the middle of the room and waited until he closed and latched the door before speaking again.
“You had another nightmare.”
“I’m awake now.”
“As am I, and since we are both up and—”
“This isn’t something you need to concern yourself over.”
She chose not to dignify that comment with a direct response. “Are they dreams of war?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I heard you . . . just now . . .” She gestured at the door. “I heard you say ‘cannons.’ Are they dreams of war?”
He was silent for such a long time that she was a little surprised when he opened his mouth to speak.
He snapped it shut again without saying a word.
Almost, she thought. Almost was a start. “Would you like me to fetch you some port or—”
“Thank you, no.”
She shifted her feet, then wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry I haven’t any chocolate.”
“It’s all right. Go back to bed.”
“Wouldn’t you rather—?”
“No. Go to bed.”
She straightened her shoulders, battled back her nerves, and said, “No.”
Dark brows rose nearly to his hairline. “No?”
She nodded, resolute. “I am not leaving.”
He was still except for lowering of his eyebrows. “It was not a request, Winnefred.”
“It was not mistaken for one.”
“I see.” He stepped back to lean against the door and fold his arms over his chest. “And what do you expect to accomplish by defying me?”
This was a mood she didn’t recognize. There was a coolness to his speech that added to her nervousness, and a negligence in his manner she’d not seen from him before. He looked at her as if he found her interesting, but only a little.
“I expect nothing,” she replied. “I hope to help. I have to try.”
“Why?”
She refused to give in to the sudden desire to look away. “Because you are of importance to me. You are my friend. Because—”
“We’ve known each other less than a sennight,” he reminded her with a curl of his lip. “Will you insist upon turning this into a comédie larmoyante?”
Hurt and temper fought for control while a thin but sharp blade of acute embarrassment worked its way under her skin. Because her hands wanted to shake, she gripped them behind her back, and to counter the sudden tremble in her jaw she raised her chin and met his eyes.
“I don’t know what that is.”
He blinked once, twice, then closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. Bloody hell, I’m sorry. There was no call for that.”
She remained silent, uncertain of what to say.
Gideon unfolded his arms to draw a hand down his face. “I find I could use a drink after all.”
“I’ll fetch it for you.”
“You won’t. Stay here.” He straightened from the wall, grabbed his cane from the side of the bed, stalked back to the door, and turned around again to scowl at her. “Stay here, Winnefred.”
“Haven’t I been arguing to stay here?”
His scowl briefly intensified before he turned and left the room.
Winnefred stared at the door as the sound Gideon’s footsteps echoed down the hall.
We’ve known each other less than a sennight.
Those words stung, but they didn’t wound the way his behavior by the bridge had wounded. In part because she knew them to have been spoken in anger, but mostly because it wasn’t a judgment of her. But the sentiment did give her pause. They reminded her that it often took more than hard work to obtain what was wanted. A person could tug on a carrot all day and not make it grow any faster or provide its bounty any quicker. One could water and feed and weed, but in the end, the need for time and patience could not be circumvented.
A man might be fond of a woman, be attracted to that woman, and yet be appalled at the notion of marrying her after only a few weeks’ acquaintance. That made sense. It wasn’t at all flattering, but it was reasonable.
She needed to be reasonable in return. She had been willing to fight for what she wanted; now she would need to be willing to wait as well, and accept that there was still a great deal for the both of them to learn of each other.
She could do that . . . Probably . . . Possibly.
Her store of courage was not infinite. She could push her fears aside as often as she liked, but they would always find a way to make themselves known—a way to eat at her resolve.
Whether he knew her for a sennight or a decade, she might never be the sort of woman Gideon would want to marry.
She wasn’t beautiful, or educated, or charming. She wasn’t a lady. She’d stolen a locket, and played cards with a thief, and kept company with a goat.
She wasn’t the sort of person anyone had ever wanted to keep.
“Lilly did,” she whispered in the empty room. Someone had wanted her before, someone could want her again. With a bit of time and work—and provided, of course, that it was still what she wanted—that someone might be Gideon.
Chapter 22
Gideon wasn’t in search of a drink . . . not exclusively. He wanted a few moments alone as well. He needed the time and space to rein in his temper, sort through his disjointed thoughts, and marshal his flagging determination to do what was right. He would apologize for his behavior, and then he would send Winnefred back to her room.
He found his drink in the tavern, where a few patrons sat apart from each other in moody silence. He wanted to join them, to take a seat by the fire and drink himself into oblivion. He purchased a bottle instead and took the first long drink in the stairwell on his way back upstairs.
Twice. Twice in one day he had lost himself in the memories of war. And twice in one day he had taken his troubles out on Winnefred.
It was a miracle the woman wasn’t headed
back to Murdoch House right now, eating his raw heart along the way.
He rubbed at his chest where an ache had been nagging since he’d realized how badly he had wounded her feelings by the bridge. She’d made a small, harmless jest about being betrothed and, like an utter bastard, he’d responded by nearly swallowing his tongue in horror.
Oh, she’d pretended not to care. She had affected a careless demeanor, and then she had laughed and forgiven him. But he’d seen the hurt in her eyes, and the way her skin had paled beneath the freckles. She hadn’t been able to hide that. And he hadn’t been able to find the words, nor the courage, to make things right. How could he explain his fears without explaining his reasons for them? How could he tell her a part of him, a small selfish part of him, had indulged, just for a moment here and there, in the daydream of courting her, of keeping her? How could he admit to that and not tell her why the better part of him would never allow it to happen?
He couldn’t. No more, apparently, than he could keep himself from being a bastard all over again. And this time, he’d not be able to smooth things over with a silly jest.
A comédie larmoyante. Bloody, bloody hell.
What had he been thinking?
His hand clenched around the bottle. He knew damn well what he had been thinking—that she had pulled him from the pain of his memories yet again. That she had looked as beautiful dripping wet and worried by the stream as she had laughing on a moonlit road in Scotland, and twice again as beautiful standing in his room with the light of the fireplace dancing along the gold strands in her braid. He’d been thinking that he had never wanted to grab hold of a woman so desperately in his life. And he’d been terrified what would become of the both of them if he did. He’d had to do something, anything to make her leave.
And so he had cut her with careless words. She had stood her ground, but he’d watched her shrink before his eyes, which was equally effective in dousing the flames of ardor as it turned out.
Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Page 19