by Cheryl Bolen
And she could not allow herself to do that.
“We should be in St. Albans shortly,” he said. “We’ll stop there for a few hours' rest.”
It took all her strength to nod as her head sloped into the window. The inky black skies paled as they rode into the dawn.
And stopped at the posting inn in St. Albans.
Chapter 17
Before he could allow himself to sleep, he must dash off a letter to Fiona. He went to the window where a hazy light from the awakening dawn squeezed into his bedchamber and he took up his pen.
My Dearest Fiona,
The deep melancholy I perceived in your last letter has disturbed me greatly. I hope I am not amiss in thinking that a visit from the man you have so singularly honored might in some way brighten your grievous period of mourning.
Forgive me for the brevity of this letter, but I wish to inform you to expect a visit from me before the week is out. For reasons I will share when I see you, please do not tell anyone of the impending visit.
Yours,
Warwick
P.S. My uncle’s widow and her younger sister shall accompany me, owing to your own gracious invitation.
Before franking it, he read it over once more, rather pleased with the offhand manner in which he had mentioned Maggie. As if she were an afterthought.
Would that she was.
He removed his boots--only now regretting he had not brought Cummings--untied his stiff cravat and took off his coat, then stretched across the clean feather bed.
Only then did he realize how sore he was. He must have pulled a muscle in his shoulder during the fight. It hurt like the blazes whenever he moved. And if he were to take off his shirt, he had no doubt there would also be a whelping bruise on his left arm to go along with his bruised knuckles. He winced in pain as he attempted to roll over into a more comfortable position.
Though he was devilishly tired, he could not go to sleep. More than from the intense aching which throbbed to his bones, he was beset with fears for Maggie’s safety. Even as he lay there, he worried that the band of cutthroats had crept up the stairs to her room.
He bolted up, then set about donning his boots and coat and whipping the cravat into a semblance of a tie. After he dressed, he crept from his room and along the hall to Maggie’s and Miss Peabody’s chamber at its far end. His step as light as a cat’s, he paused outside their door, listening intently. All was quiet. He gave a grateful smile and vowed to protect the ladies with his life. He could not let down his guard until they got to Windmere Abbey.
Therefore, he trudged wearily down the stairs to the first floor where he heard muffled kitchen noises. When the innkeeper saw Edward, he crossed the parlor to greet him. “An early start for your party, my lord?”
“No. We’ll wait until nine of the clock. My coachman needs his sleep if he’s to drive throughout the day and into the night.”
“Where are you headed?”
Edward’s pause was indiscernible. What westward destination would be accessible from St. Albans? “Shropshire.”
“A mighty long way indeed.”
“That it is, and I’m unable to sleep. Can I trouble you for a cup of tea? Perhaps that will provide a jolt to this weary body.”
After the first cup of tea Edward returned to his room for Fiona’s letter, then requested the innkeeper send it by today’s post. He took the second cup of tea to his chamber and drank while he attempted to shave himself, a skill he had never quite mastered. And he had the nicks to show for it. A pity he hadn’t brought Cummings.
He put on a clean shirt and took his time tying the cravat--another task Cummings performed considerably better than his master, Edward lamented.
When he finished, it was nearly nine. He would rap at the ladies’ door to rouse them for the day’s long journey. He knocked once. Nothing. He knocked again, then heard women’s indistinguishable voices, then the sound of a light footfall crossing the room, followed by Maggie saying, “Pray, who is it?”
“Warwick,” he answered. “Can you ladies be down for breakfast in twenty minutes?”
“I daresay it won’t take us twenty minutes to throw on our traveling clothes, my lord. It’s not as if we’re dressing for a ball.”
“Very good,” he said. His presence obviously did not warrant careful attention to her grooming. The woman had no interest whatsoever in him. Hadn’t she flatly turned down his offer of marriage? Twice.
* * *
“How many miles do you think we can make today?” she asked him over a breakfast of cream, toast, cold chicken and ham.
“I’m hoping Rufus can manage a couple more hours after dark since it gets dark so beastly early this time of year. If he does, we should be able to cover nearly sixty miles today. If all goes well, we could settle in northern Cambridgeshire tonight.” His voice lowered. “Our destination, I don’t need to tell you ladies, is not to be revealed to anyone. I’ve told our host we’re going to Shropshire.”
“My sister knows everything,” Maggie said, “and she realizes the expediency of our journey.”
“Good,” he said.
Amusement in her face, Maggie added, “I cannot think of Shropshire and not think of poor Lord Aynsley--and your disdain for the location of his seat.”
Edward’s brows lowered. “Speaking of Aynsley, I was shocked not to find him at Almack’s last night. Was he suddenly called out of town, do you know? If the man were in London, nothing could have kept him from coming to dance with you last night--and attempting to keep as much distance possible between you and Harry Lyle!”
A contrite look on her face, Maggie said, “I’m afraid we won’t be seeing his lordship any more.”
The room went deadly silent for a moment, then Lord Warwick said, “Then you turned down his offer?”
“How did you know?”
“The man was an open book.”
As Lord Warwick stared at her, Maggie felt like a horse being auctioned at Tattersall’s. “Then a title, I take it,” he said, “is no significant recommendation to you?”
“Apparently not,” Maggie said, shrugging.
“Does that mean you’ve made a decision to bestow your affections elsewhere?”
Where she had chosen to bestow her affections was certainly none of his concern. She squared her shoulders and spoke haughtily. “As a matter of fact I have.”
“Enlighten me, if you please,” he said, never letting his brittle gaze drop.
“I drew up a list of each man’s attributes.”
“Cook, Aynsley and Lyle?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she said with a shake of her head. “I had already told Mr. Cook not to court me.”
“I see,” his lordship said in that arrogant voice of his.
“So I had narrowed it down to Lord Aynsley and Mr. Lyle.”
“Even before you set so many hearts aflutter at Almack’s?”
“It seemed expedient that I remove myself from your home under the freshly revealed circumstances.”
“I always told you that you could stay as long as needed.”
“Be that as it may, I did not wish to stay there a day longer than necessary.”
“So you determined that marriage was the easiest way out of my house?”
She nodded.
“I take it Harry Lyle had more attributes than Lord Aynsley?”
“He did.”
“Enlighten me, if you will,” Lord Warwick said, “on Lyle’s attributes.”
She gave him an exasperated glare. “I like that he is not an idle man and that he is possessed of a sense of humor. And he doesn’t allow himself to be bullied by you, even if you are an earl!”
Why wouldn’t Lord Warwick respond to what she had just said? The man sat there watching her with the most positively brooding scowl.
“Then it would seem my felicitations are in order,” he finally said.
“As a matter of fact,” she retorted. “Mr. Lyle has not offered for me. I don’t even know if he
’s in a position to do so, but if he does, I shall accept.” At least that is what she had planned to do before Mr. Lyle fell under her suspicion.
Lord Warwick nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re willing spend the rest of your life with a man whose strongest recommendation is the ability to stand up to the wicked Lord Warwick?”
She gave him another haughty stare. “I never said you were wicked.” She flicked a glance to Rebecca, who sat at the breakfast table reading the newest book. “I declare, Becky, you haven’t touched your food!”
Without looking up from her book, Becky absently reached for a piece of toast and took a bite.
Then Maggie’s attention returned to his lordship. "Pray, my lord, what have you done to your face? It's bleeding."
He drew in an angry breath. "I cut it shaving."
A smile leaped to her face. "You're not accustomed to shaving yourself, I perceive."
"No, I'm not," he hissed.
She flicked another glance at her sister. “I daresay my sister’s endeavoring to cram in as much reading as she can before we climb into your carriage.”
He nodded. “Because she suffers from motion sickness when she reads in a moving vehicle.”
“Do you suffer the same malady, my lord?” Maggie asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because of your seasickness. Rebecca gets ill at sea, too.” Maggie would have sworn there was an angry twitch in his sculpted cheek. No doubt he thought seasickness emasculating.
“I . . . I have no desire to read when I’m riding.”
Her mischievous grin unfurled. “Your motion sickness is nothing to be embarrassed about, my lord.”
“I never said I had motion sickness!” he protested.
“Despite the brevity of our acquaintance, methinks I know you well.” She felt the heat rising in her cheeks when she remembered just how “well” he knew her.
“As I know you, Maggie,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Oh dear, was he too remembering their damp, bare bodies tangled in the bed coverings at the Spotted Hound and Hare?
“I know, for instance,” he said in a wickedly mischievous voice, “that when you’re truly upset you don’t cry. Your tears are only a ruse you employ to coax men into doing your bidding.”
She glared at him. “You odious man!”
He laughed, then continued cutting up his cold ham. Neither of them spoke for the next several minutes as they polished off their breakfast.
When he finished eating he instructed the innkeeper to pack food for the journey. “I intend to let Rufus sleep until the last minute for he’ll need all the sleep he can get,” he told Maggie. “He can breakfast while we ride. I’ll drive until he’s finished eating.”
“So that we can make our sixty miles today?” Maggie asked. “How many days until we reach Yorkshire?”
“Four days if the weather doesn’t become too troublesome.”
She did not know if she wished to pray for rain or not. As much as she disliked the tediousness of riding for hours cooped up in an uncomfortable coach and staying in equally uncomfortable coaching inns, she disliked more the prospect of coming face to face with Lady Fiona Hollingsworth.
* * *
Once they were an hour out of St. Albans, Edward returned to the coach’s interior. This time he sat beside Miss Peabody. Maggie’s nearness was far too provocative. However, he had not reckoned on how deuced difficult it would be facing her, peering at the porcelain perfection of her face, at the woefulness of those huge brown eyes, at the graceful curves of her beautiful body.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” she asked in a soft voice.
“How did you know?” God, but he felt wretchedly tired.
“I told you earlier. I’ve come to know you quite well.”
Did every word she uttered have to sound so damned seductive? “So you have,” he grumbled.
“Why don’t you nap?” she suggested in a concerned voice.
A bone-tired nod was his only response. “I believe I will.”
He removed his sword and propped it against Maggie's seat, then settled back, but when his shoulder touched the side of the carriage, he winced.
“You’re hurt!” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ll wager he hurt himself in the fight,” Rebecca said.
“Ladies do not wager,” Maggie scolded, then returned her attention to Edward. “You are too hurt!”
“Just a little soreness,” he assured her.
Maggie’s gaze flicked to his scuffed knuckles. “Oh, my lord, I feel so wretched that you wounded yourself protecting me.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.”
“Where else are you hurt?” Maggie asked, her brows--like her voice--lowering.
He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing more than a bruised arm and tender shoulder.”
“When we get to the inn tonight, you must allow me to dress your wound,” Maggie said.
“Maggie’s ever so skillful in her doctoring abilities,” Rebecca assured him.
He was NOT about to have Maggie touch his bare flesh. Again. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, I insist,” she said with sweet arrogance.
Maddening woman!
He scowled at her, then braced his head against the window to sleep. Despite his extreme discomfort, he managed to drift in and out of sleep over the next three hours.
Though they had eaten the nuncheon the innkeeper’s cook had packed, by the time the countryside had settled into darkness, Edward was ravenously hungry again. After consulting his map, he had told Rufus not to stop until they reached Market Deeping, but he wasn’t sure now if he could stand to ride in this blasted carriage for another hour.
“You may as well tell the coachman to set us down in the next village large enough to have a posting inn,” Maggie said.
“Why, madam, do you say that?” he asked.
“It’s perfectly obvious to me that you’re starving, my lord.”
“Maddening woman!” he uttered even as he followed her suggestion.
Chapter 18
When Lord Warwick lifted his left arm to assist her from the carriage, Maggie saw that he winced, then offered instead his right arm.
“I don’t care how trivial you say your wound is, my lord,” she scolded, taking his right hand, “I know you’re hurt.”
“I’ll be fine in a day or two,” he said as he helped Rebecca down.
They had come to a small posting inn in Burymeade where the innkeeper was only too happy to show The Quality to a small parlor warmed by a fire blazing in the hearth. Maggie rejected his lordship’s offer to help her remove her cloak. “I’m not the one who’s wounded and am perfectly capable of removing my own cloak--as is my sister.”
After shedding her heavy merino cloak, Maggie walked over to stand by the fire. “I vow, it feels so good to stretch my legs I believe I could eat standing up tonight.”
He came to stand beside her, and Rebecca dropped into a chair to read by the light of the fire. “A walk would really feel good right now,” he said.
“But it wouldn’t do you any good to walk in the dark,” Maggie said, “for I’m persuaded you’d only fall down in some rut, and I’d have one more injury of yours to tend to.”
“I never said I’d allow you to tend my wound.”
“See! You’re not denying you’re wounded.”
“As I said, it will heal. Without your assistance.”
“Be that as it may, I will not take no for an answer.”
“We’ll see about that!” he growled.
“You’re just being an ogre because you're so beastly hungry.”
There was amusement on his face when he faced her. “I do not recommend close confinement with a pig-headed wench.”
She laughed and was pleased to see that he laughed with her. “Because this pig-headed wench is getting to know you too thoroughly.”
A moment later he pulled out his watch. “Since it’
s only six of the clock, we shall all finally be able to get a good night’s sleep.”
“What time will we leave in the morning?” she asked.
“I’d like to have breakfast at five. That way we could get in a good twelve hours' journey tomorrow.”
“If the weather holds,” she said, her chest tight. Was he that eager to see that blasted Fiona? “Pray, my lord, what does your expertise on the clouds tell you tomorrow’s weather will be?” She forced a smile and met his smiling countenance.
“I do believe you’re ridiculing me, madam.”
“Never that, my lord,” she said dramatically.
“I am unable to predict tomorrow’s weather from today’s clouds. Clouds are subject to changing during the course of a night.”
She feigned interest. “I did not know that!”
The door banged open and an aproned matron came into the room with a heaping tray of hot food as the three of them removed to the nearby trestle table where light from a single taper pooled on its well worn pine top.
Maggie watched her sister as she returned her attention to the current book. “I do wish you would not read under such poor lighting. It can do your poor eyes no good.”
Rebecca reluctantly lifted her gaze from the half-read volume. “But I’ve done it my whole life.”
“And see where it’s gotten you! You’re half blind.”
“Let your poor sister be,” Lord Warwick said.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Maggie said, “you’re not the one who’s going to have to read deadly dull tomes to her when she does go blind!”
He began to chuckle again.
It must be the food, she thought, that accounted for his lordship’s good humor. She made note to ask for extra cheese in the basket the following day, to keep Lord Warwick’s stomach full and keep his foul temper at bay. She watched her sister from beneath lowered brows. “I promise you can read through the night if you wish, pet, but I do wish you’d honor us with your conversation during dinner. I shouldn’t want Lord Warwick to think you’ve the table manners of a toad.”