She glanced sideways at him, still stroking Mr. Bellyrub. A dimple appeared in her cheek. “Doomed?”
“Doooomed,” Mayhew repeated, drawing out the word.
Her lips twitched into a smile. “We are not doomed,” she told him. “This is merely another kitten-astrophe.”
Mayhew leaned back on one elbow in the hay and smirked. “I knew you liked that pun.”
“It’s a dreadful pun.”
“Dreadful?”
“Monstrously dreadful. Prodigiously dreadful.”
He laughed. “Please, don’t spare my feelings.”
Miss Culpepper rolled her eyes at him. He could tell from her dimples that she was struggling not to smile.
Mayhew laughed again. And then he stopped laughing. This felt dangerously like flirting, and he couldn’t flirt with Miss Culpepper. Not under circumstances like this. Not when she was injured and dependent on his protection. Only a cad would do that, and he was not a cad.
Scout climbed up on his damp knee, her claws digging into his green pantaloons. Mayhew winced and carefully detached her. He sat up again, laid some hay on his lap, and let her settle there. She turned around three times, curled up in a tight ball, and closed her eyes.
Mayhew cupped a hand over her and felt the warm vibration of her purr. He glanced at Miss Culpepper. No flirting, he reminded himself. “How’s your ankle?”
“Not bad at all.”
“Are you warm enough?”
“Yes. Are you?”
He was. Wet, but warm. He cast about for a subject. “Where else have you been, Miss Culpepper, other than South America and Constantinople and Russia?”
Her face lit up. “We were in Egypt for four years. I was only a girl, but I still remember it.”
They talked about Egypt, and briefly about South Africa, where Miss Culpepper’s mother had died of a fever, and then she told him about Kingston upon Thames, the village outside London where her aunt lived, and where she’d spent the past year.
“You don’t like it there,” Mayhew said, when she’d finished.
Miss Culpepper pulled a wry face. “Is it that obvious?”
He nodded, and stroked Scout.
Miss Culpepper hesitated, and then said, “Kingston upon Thames is very picturesque and very quiet—and I know that most people would love to live somewhere picturesque and quiet—but my parents didn’t, and I don’t either.” She sighed, and looked down at Mr. Bellyrub, asleep in her lap. “It would be much easier if I did. I could be married and settled there right now.”
Mayhew’s hand hesitated in its stroking of Scout. “Married? You had a suitor in Kingston Upon Thames?”
Miss Culpepper nodded. “They did me a great honor, but . . .” Her lips pressed together regretfully.
They?
Mayhew waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. “They?” he prompted carefully.
Miss Culpepper colored. “Yes.”
“How many is ‘they’?” he asked, even more carefully.
She looked away. “It sounds braggish.”
“I promise I won’t think you’re puffing yourself off.”
Miss Culpepper looked back at him and hesitated, and then said, “Six.”
Mayhew felt his eyebrows rise. “Six?” His voice might have risen a little bit, too.
Miss Culpepper had had six suitors in Kingston Upon Thames?
“Yes.” Her lips pursed regretfully again. “First was the vicar. Then the squire’s son. Then Mr. Hanslow, who’s secretary to Baron Allen. Then the baron’s youngest son. Then Sir Peter Frost, and the very last was Mr. Mannering.”
Mayhew digested that list for a few moments. Six. “May I ask why you didn’t wish to marry them? If it’s not too impertinent?”
Miss Culpepper frowned down at Mr. Bellyrub and stroked him several times and then said, “They were all perfectly nice men, respectable and amiable and upstanding and . . . and well-born and . . . and . . .”
“Boring?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “They all want to live in Kingston upon Thames. Forever! And you may tell me that I’m a fool for not wanting that—my aunt certainly told me often enough—but unfortunately, I’m my parents’ daughter. I felt as if I was suffocating in that village.”
“There’s nothing unfortunate about it,” Mayhew said firmly. He ran through the list of suitors in his head: vicar, secretary, squire’s son, baron’s son. “Your suitors sound very much like my brothers.”
She cocked her head at him. “They do?”
“My father’s a baron,” Mayhew told her. “My oldest brother will make a worthy successor when it’s his turn. My next oldest brother is a rector, and the one after that is a vicar, and the one after that, too. And the youngest one, John, is secretary to an earl.”
“You have five brothers?”
“Five brothers and one sister. Do you have any?”
She shook her head.
“Well, my brothers all live in the same county—in fact most of them live within ten miles of each other.” He smiled at her. “They’re exactly like your suitors: amiable and upstanding, and they don’t want to leave Wiltshire, let alone leave England.”
“But you’re not like that.”
Mayhew shook his head. “I want to see the world, and I want to be challenged.” He hesitated, and then said, “What you said to the Pennys . . . that’s how I feel, too. I love army life. Even when it’s awful and heartbreaking.” He rubbed between Scout’s ears, gently and meditatively. “Waterloo was worse than awful. It was . . .” He grimaced at memory of that carnage. “A lot of fellows sold out afterwards, and I considered it myself, but . . . I couldn’t. A soldier is what I’m meant to be. It’s who I am.”
Miss Culpepper nodded, as if she understood exactly what he was attempting to say. “It’s who my father was, too.”
He rubbed Scout’s little head again. “I wish I’d met him.”
“He would have liked you,” Miss Culpepper said.
“I hope so.” He stroked Scout once, twice. “From what I’ve heard, your father was everything a good commander should be. He led from the front, he was scrupulously fair, and he kept a cool head. Colonel Barraclough says that your father always said it was better to fix things than lose one’s temper over them.”
Miss Culpepper’s smile was soft, a little sad. “Yes, he did say that.”
“And Barraclough says he didn’t play favorites.” Which was, in Mayhew’s opinion, almost as important as courage and cool-headedness in a commanding officer.
“Father? Heavens, no! Which isn’t to say that people didn’t try to pour the butter boat over him, because they most certainly did.” Miss Culpepper chuckled, as if at some memory, and then her smile slowly faded, becoming soft and sad again. She looked down at the folds of rough blanket spilling around her and plucked a horse hair from the coarse weave. “That was the hardest thing for him when he moved in diplomatic circles—all the flummery and the puffery. Father much preferred bluntness.”
Lamplight caressed her face. She plucked another horse hair from the blanket, and another, and she looked rumpled and lovely and pensive, and it struck Mayhew suddenly that she was an orphan, and not just an orphan but an only child, too, and that she was alone in a way that he, with five brothers and one sister, could never be. Her aloneness seemed suddenly so dreadful, so terrible, that his throat clenched and his heart clenched and the urge to put an arm around her was almost overwhelming. He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t alone, tell her that he thought he’d fallen in love with her, that he wanted to marry her, and that if she married him she’d never be alone again, that she’d have him and the whole of the Rifle Brigade as her family.
But only a cad would put his arm around a young lady under circumstances like this, when she was vulnerable and under his protection, and only a fool would blurt out a proposal after an acquaintance of only a few hours.
Mayhew swallowed past the lump in his throat and looked away. “What sort of man is th
is baronet who’s hired you?”
“Sir Walter Pike? He’s . . .”
He glanced back at her. Miss Culpepper’s expression was no longer pensive, but thoughtful, as if she was searching for a word. “He’s very genteel,” she said, finally.
Genteel? Mayhew gave a soundless snort. If Sir Walter Pike was so damned genteel, why was Miss Culpepper traveling by stagecoach? Surely a genteel employer would hire a post-chaise for his daughters’ companion?
Dare he ask her that question?
He gave a mental shrug, and decided that he would. “Why are you traveling to Twyford by stagecoach?”
“Sir Walter was going to book me on the Mail,” Miss Culpepper said. “But the waybill was full.”
“If the Mail was full, why didn’t he hire a post-chaise for you? Or send one of his own carriages?”
She shrugged. “More expensive.”
Mayhew gave another soundless snort. Sir Walter might be genteel, but he was also a damned penny-pincher. “What time is he meeting you tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“You’ll be in Twyford before that, Miss Culpepper. I give you my word.” He’d make certain of it. Even if he had to carry her, she’d be there on time. Before time, because she needed to wash and change her clothes before she met Sir Walter.
He hoped to God that her trunk had been set down at Twyford. That would be a disaster he couldn’t mend by ten o’clock.
Mayhew sent up a brief prayer for Miss Culpepper’s trunk to be where it was meant to be, then glanced over at the wagon driver. Mr. Williams appeared to be asleep on his pile of hay. The great horse had one hip cocked as if it was sleeping, too.
He looked back at Miss Culpepper. “Why don’t you get some rest? I promise that you’ll be safe.”
“What about you?”
Mayhew shook his head. “I’ll keep watch.”
Miss Culpepper leaned closer, lowering her voice so that he barely heard it over the hammering rain. “You should sleep, too, Lieutenant. Our friend may possess a churlish disposition, but I don’t believe he’d harm us.”
Mayhew didn’t think the wagon driver would harm them either, but he wasn’t prepared to risk Miss Culpepper’s safety. “I’ll keep watch,” he repeated, firmly.
Miss Culpepper must have heard the implacable note in his voice, because she didn’t try to persuade him to change his mind. She simply nodded, and said, “Here,” and shucked his jacket and gave it to him.
“I’m not cold—”
“I have the blanket, so you must take this.”
Mayhew heard the implacable note in her voice, and decided not to argue. He accepted the jacket.
Miss Culpepper removed the single half boot she was wearing, placed it alongside its mate, and settled herself and Mr. Bellyrub on their bed of hay, beneath the heavy horse blanket. She smiled at Mayhew, a cheerful smile, as if she wasn’t wet and muddy, as if she didn’t have a sprained ankle, as if this day hadn’t been one disaster after another, as if she was happy to be in this barn with him and England’s surliest wagon driver while a storm raged outside.
Mayhew smiled helplessly back at her.
Miss Culpepper snuggled deeper into the blanket and closed her eyes.
For some reason the fact that she’d closed her eyes made a lump grow in Mayhew’s throat again.
Miss Culpepper trusted him not to touch her. She trusted him to keep her safe.
She trusted him.
Mayhew looked away and found that he needed to clear his throat and blink a little moisture from his eyes, which was rather embarrassing. He was a soldier, for heaven’s sake. He didn’t get mawkish over something as simple as someone closing their eyes.
Unless that someone was Miss Culpepper.
He glanced back at her. Emotions surged through him. Protectiveness was foremost, but there were a multitude of others: admiration, tenderness, longing, hope, respect. Love.
Mayhew lifted his jacket to his nose and inhaled, hoping to catch Miss Culpepper’s scent. All he smelled was wet wool.
Idiot, he told himself, with a self-conscious glance around the barn. But no one had seen him. Not the wagon driver. Not Miss Culpepper. Not even the horse.
Chapter Nine
Willie woke to the sound of low voices. She blinked her eyes open and saw hay and daylight. Memory came sweeping back. She sat up hastily, dislodging Mr. Bellyrub. He uttered a squeaking meow, clambered to his feet, and shook himself from head to toe.
“Sorry,” Willie said, stroking his tiny head, and it appeared that Mr. Bellyrub wasn’t one to hold grudges, for he butted against her fingers and purred. Then he yawned widely and shook himself again.
Willie yawned, too, and rubbed her face and put her hand to her hair, which felt as tangled as a briar patch. Lieutenant Mayhew and the wagon driver were at the barn door. The lieutenant said something, his voice too low for her to catch the words, but it sounded like a question. The driver replied gruffly.
Willie plucked out her hairpins. She ran her fingers through her ringlets and found them as snarled and messy as she’d feared. She needed a mirror and a comb if she was to repair that, but neither of those things was available right now, so she replaced the hairpins as best she could and made inventory of her situation.
One: chaotic hair.
Two: her gown was still damp, the muslin stained with mud and puckered into a thousand wrinkles—but she could do nothing about that, so there was no point worrying about it.
What was worth worrying about was her ankle.
Cautiously, Willie flexed it. The resultant twinge barely qualified as pain.
So, that was all right. In fact, it was better than all right.
A bath, a comb, and fresh clothes, and she would almost be as good as new.
Lieutenant Mayhew turned his head, saw that she was awake, and crossed swiftly to her. “Miss Culpepper. Good morning.”
“What time is it?” Willie asked.
“Nearly seven o’clock.” He crouched alongside her, smiling. He looked rumpled and disreputable—hair disheveled, golden stubble roughening his cheeks—but not nearly as rumpled and disreputable as she knew that she looked.
Willie told herself there was no point in vanity in situations like this, but she did wish she could wash her face and tidy her hair.
“The rain stopped about an hour ago,” Mayhew said. “Mr. Williams has been out to check the road. The ford’s still flooded, so we can’t go that way, and the oak that came down is too large for his horse to move, but he thinks that you and I can climb over it, and from there it’s less than half a mile to Twyford.”
Willie nodded.
“We’ll be in Twyford by eight thirty,” he promised. “I’ll carry you.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. My ankle feels much better today.”
His eyes lit with hope. “May I examine it? Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Willie extended her leg and pulled up her hem a few inches, revealing her filthy stockinged foot and ankle.
The lieutenant examined it as he had yesterday, probing gently with his fingers. It felt ridiculously intimate. Willie’s pulse hammered in her throat and her face felt hot. No, it wasn’t just her face that felt hot; her whole body felt hot.
Lieutenant Mayhew carefully rotated her ankle joint through its range of movement, a thoughtful frown on his face.
“It really doesn’t hurt much at all,” Willie told him, and to her relief her voice was steady, not breathless.
“Let’s see how it feels when you put weight on it,” Mayhew said, releasing her ankle. “Let me put your half boots on.” He did just that, carefully sliding them onto her feet and lacing them up. Willie should have felt like a child, to have him do that, but she didn’t. She felt . . . a little self-conscious and desperately aware of him—his proximity, his deft fingers, the way his eyebrows drew together as he concentrated—but mostly, she felt cared for, a sensation that she hadn’t felt since her father had died. A sen
sation that made her throat constrict and her eyes sting.
Willie blinked several times and looked away, then back. The glinting golden stubble on Mayhew’s cheeks made him look more flesh-and-blood man and less dashing lieutenant. It made him look older, too. She caught herself wondering how old he was. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?
Mayhew tied the laces into neat bows, stood, and extended his hand to her. “Here, I’ll steady you.”
Willie let him pull her to her feet—and realized that neither of them was wearing gloves any longer. Her fingers tingled at his touch.
Willie held on to his hand and tried to ignore the tingle and the way it elevated her heart rate. She took a cautious step. Her ankle gave a throb of discomfort, but that throb was nothing like the raw, stabbing pain of yesterday. “It feels a thousand times better. I don’t think you’ll need to carry me, Lieutenant.” And that was a blessing for which she was deeply thankful. If her fingers tingled when he touched them for a few seconds, imagine how she’d feel if he carried her half a mile?
Mayhew released her hand and Willie should have felt relieved, because the tingle snuffed out, but perversely she felt sorry for that loss of contact.
“I’d feel better if you had a crutch or walking stick.” Mayhew cast a frowning glance around the barn, then his face brightened. “How about that hoe, Miss Culpepper?”
He brought it to her, flipping it so that the blade pointed to the ceiling. “Blade’s rusted, but the handle looks strong.”
Willie accepted the hoe and leaned on it and took a careful step.
“Well?” the lieutenant asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
“It will do perfectly,” Willie said.
Mayhew grinned at her—a grin that took her breath away—and rubbed his hands together briskly and said, “Right, let’s be off!” And then he lost his grin and went faintly pink and said hesitantly, “Or, do you need to, er . . .”
Yes, Willie did need to, er.
She hobbled outside and around to the back of the barn, thanking God for the hoe with every step that she took. Imagine if Mayhew had had to carry her out here to do this?
Love and Other Perils Page 6