Page 13 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

T he meal had been easy. They had shared several of them already, so it was known territory.

Sleeping in the same room was new.

Tavie stood behind the screen in her nightdress, which seemed lacier and more transparent than it had been the night before.

She brushed her hair, wishing that the act would create lustrous curls rather than limp, straight strands.

She’d been hoping for curls since childhood, but they never came to be.

She wove a braid without thinking twice, and then drew a deep breath.

I wonder if this is how the new Mrs. Faber felt on her wedding night .

She pulled her thoughts up short and smacked her thigh with her hairbrush. It would do absolutely no good to think about such things. She and Matthew were not embarking on a wedding trip. They were fleeing her husband, who was a spy and had hired the louts who had harmed Kate and Hildie.

Tavie peeked from behind the screen. The firelight burnished Matthew’s dark-golden hair as he lay facing the fire. His braces and waistcoat hung from the chair where he’d sat to eat supper. His boots waited near the door.

She took three long, fast steps to the bed and slid between the cool sheets.

While she missed having the bed warmed, she was glad not to deal with a prying maid.

Besides that, the chill cooled her flushed skin.

She blew out her candle, and the room fell into darkness.

Long shadows danced across the floor. “Sleep well, Matthew.”

“Goodnight, Tavie.”

She stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to overtake her. She even tried squinching her eyes closed to help it along. Instead, she heard a muffled moan. She froze, wondering whether Matthew was uncomfortable on the floor. Before she could ask, another moan sounded, this one a woman’s.

Then there were whispers. Giggles.

Something banged the wall. A rhythmic thumping gathered speed, then slowed, but didn’t stop.

Oh dear Lord. Tavie slapped her hand over her mouth to hide her nervous laughter. All thoughts of sleep vanished.

The newlyweds picked up the pace again.

“Tavie,” Matthew said, his tone a mix of humor and something she couldn’t name, “prattle on about something, would you please?”

“Do you…” She cleared her throat to stop her giggles. “Do you spend many nights looking for errant fiancés and cheating scoundrels?”

“Not many. Thank God I don’t have that many wronged friends.” He yawned. “And once I tracked down one cheating client, others were more than willing to pay.”

“Does your mother know what you’re doing?” The headboard was still bouncing off the wall, and the new bride was muffling her squeals.

Was that what sex was supposed to sound like? Was it supposed to go on for that long?

Something told Tavie that that wasn’t the proper thing to yammer in the dark to the man her mother had forced her to throw over.

“She knows I go somewhere after the opera,” Matthew said. “But she thinks it’s someplace more scandalous.” He cleared his throat. “Which is fine. She doesn’t worry that way.”

“Isn’t it tiring?” He worked all day. She knew it without asking because he always had. He was as determined as her father, and his, to make a good living for his family. To raise their status and ensure their future.

He ought to be married with children by now. She’d expected him to be, even though the thought of him with someone else caused her physical pain. Once this mess was over, and he went back to his life, she’d never stare out into the dark without wondering what he was doing and whether he was safe.

“I find it difficult to be in an empty house,” he murmured. His inhale cut through the darkness. “Mother’s retirement to the country has left it too quiet.”

She knew what it was like to rattle around a quiet house and know that it was missing the one ingredient that would make it a home.

The hallway had quieted, and it spawned all sorts of imaginings of a happy couple, sated in each other’s arms, warm and loved. Happy.

She had never craved that, not once. Neither had Albert. They’d done their duty and retired to their separate rooms, quiet people in a cold house. Whispers followed her in the hallway month after month and year after year.

But nothing ever changed.

Her longing for the man now sleeping on the floor had never diminished. It was wrong, she knew it, but she’d never stopped wishing for his touch.

“Matthew?” she whispered, wondering what would happen if he answered.

But there was no answer—only a quiet snore.

In London, this trip had sounded simple. Sail to Ipswich, take the coach to Hadleigh, and stay there. Even the nights between the beginning and end hadn’t sounded difficult. It had been a given that they couldn’t travel around the clock.

Matthew shifted against the seat, trying to find a position where his back didn’t ache. He hadn’t considered needing to sleep on the floor.

He hadn’t considered a lot of things. Like the shadows cast as Tavie had undressed behind the screen, and the way the sheets rustled when she’d climbed into bed.

The newlyweds down the hall.

The way she’d said his name.

“Did you sleep well?”

Tavie’s quiet question pulled his attention to her now-customary spot on the opposite side of the coach and next to the farthest window. Always out of reach.

“Yes.” He turned to the window to hide a poorly timed yawn that threatened to betray him.

Matthew?

Her hesitant whisper had reached around him in the dark and tugged. He had been halfway upright and turning toward the bed before common sense had returned.

She was another man’s wife.

That single fact had pushed him back to the floor, where he’d stared at the fire and pretended to snore until she stopped tossing and finally fell asleep.

“And you?” Matthew asked once he trusted his voice.

“The bed was very comfortable.”

Dear God, just her saying bed makes it impossible to breathe .

He looked toward her, intending to smile. The shadows smudged under her eyes stopped him. He hadn’t noticed them this morning over breakfast, but he’d been worried what he would do if he stared at her too long. It seemed that she hadn’t slept well either. “Good.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sounds of travel. The rhythm of clopping hooves and rattling harness combined with the warm sunshine to lull Matthew into a drowsy stupor.

“When we get to Hadleigh—”

“We shouldn’t be traveling much longer,” he said as he jolted upright.

“I am aware of that, Matthew,” she snapped. “This is my home.”

He didn’t need yet another reminder that he’d brought her to the one place in England Albert would search first. “Well, we couldn’t bloody well stay in London with you hiding under the blasted stairs.”

“I would rather hide under the stairs for the rest of the month than have half the county think I’m your whore.”

The harsh, cold word landed between them. Tavie drew a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “ When we get to Hadleigh, I don’t believe we should continue this masquerade.”

Matthew blinked, then blinked again as he worked to decipher her meaning. “Tavie, I have promised—”

“This has nothing to do with your promise,” she said. “And it is not a critique of your ability. I just don’t wish to lie about why we are together.” She drew a breath. “Traveling together.”

There was no way a country widow was going to let them share a room, even with him sleeping on the floor. “We’ll be in separate rooms.”

She muttered something under her breath. The last word might have been wise .

If it was, she was right. “We’ll be as honest as possible,” he said.

Tavie nodded, a brief smile curving her lips. Then she turned toward the window again. Matthew turned toward his and watched the scenery until every tree looked like the others.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, drawing air deep into his lungs. It smelled of farms, dust, and rosewater. The hooves striking the road made him think of heels striking polished wooden floors during country dances.

“Hadleigh’s just ahead, sir.”

Matthew jolted alert, first noticing the angle of the sun before checking his watch to confirm that they were still on schedule.

“Thank you, Sam.” In the distance, a grove of dark green trees ran in a long line, marking fresh water.

“Ask your father to keep going to the wheat fields on the other side of the village. We’re looking for the second field on the right, with a mill near the river.

” Matthew pointed to make sure the boy understood his directions.

Tavie shook her skirts, only to frown when dirt simply settled in different places. “I suppose it’s useless to try to look respectable.”

“It’s expected.” Matthew stood, bracing his feet against the sway of the coach and reached overhead for their things and his coat, which had mostly avoided damage so far. “You’ve been too long in London,” he teased as he lowered her bag.

Her bare fingers grazed his, and she hesitated for a moment before grasping the handle tightly. “Thank you.”

The flush on her cheeks might have been caused by many things, but Matthew chose to think it was the heat. It was better than thinking she was affected as he over something they’d done hundreds of times before. “Of course.”

She moved from the window, closer to the center of the coach, and retrieved her handkerchief. “Could I have the flask, please?”

He slid closer and delivered her their meager supply of water, which she used to dampen the scrap of cloth.

“I can’t do anything about my clothes,” Tavie said. “But I can at least clean my face.”

But she didn’t stop there. She swept the cloth over her ears, around the back of her neck, and then down her throat. She stopped when her neckline began.

She was clean, certainly, but now she was dewy and her red-gold hair was darker nearer her cheeks and ears, places he’d enjoyed kissing, and her sigh of contentment at being clean made him think all sorts of unclean thoughts.

Matthew dragged his eyes from her cleavage. The cleft and swell of her breasts had teased him for the entire trip, and now it was impossible to ignore. He dropped his coat into his lap and pulled her kerchief from the pocket. “Good idea.”

By the time the coach turned into the lane leading to the Millers’ home, they were both presentable.

Tavie had tied her hat, which was beginning to fray in places, and was draping a shawl over her shoulders to hide most of the dust. With her body hidden, he was finally able to slide into his coat without his own body betraying him.

Matthew stared out at the fields. They were well tended, the neat rows rippling through the dirt. The sprouts dusted each crest with a green haze, but it was easy to imagine the harvest golden in the sun, heavy heads bent in surrender to the scythe.

The lane was wide and smooth, and it led to a stone house with a thatched roof set near the shadows cast by the towering oaks and maples.

The home was flanked by a neat, thriving kitchen garden on one side, and the mill on the other.

The tall building was made from the same flat buff and gray stone as the house, but the wheel was still as the river rolled past.

Jacob pulled the team to a slow, easy stop, and Sam leapt down with the steps. Once he was clear of the door, Matthew stepped down.

Mrs. Miller was waiting for him on the steps, shading her eyes against the sun. “Mr. Foster?”

She was a thin but sturdy-looking woman, like many farm wives were. Her daughter was almost her twin, only shorter and less wary. Their neatly pressed clothes made Matthew feel all the more rumpled. “Indeed, Mrs. Miller. Miss Miller. I trust you received my letter.”

He helped Tavie descend from the coach. The woman’s eyes widened. “We did, sir. But you didn’t mention bringing Mrs. Foster with you.”

Matthew had promised Tavie they’d be as honest as possible, but he hadn’t thought of a reasonable excuse for why they would be traveling together.

“Tavie Wilton.” She stepped forward and extended her hand in greeting. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Mrs. Miller. But I’m a childhood friend of Mr. Foster, and he offered to escort me home to family in Norfolk.”

The woman looked between them. “Alone?”

“Yes. I’m afraid our chaperone couldn’t be spared. My sister has caught the eye of a charming baron who takes her out every day.” Tavie dotted her damp handkerchief to the corner of each eye. “But I’ve not been so lucky. The man chasing me is a persistent lout who Father’s afraid is up to no good.”

Matthew fought his smile as he stepped forward. “Tavie’s parents thought it best to get her out of London before the young man did something disgraceful.”

Mrs. Miller nodded, but she was still concerned. “It’s just that we don’t have room for the both of you, and the nearest inn is back the way you came.”

“Were you going to put Mr. Foster in the mill?” Tavie asked. Her smile widened when Mrs. Miller nodded. “Then there’s plenty of room in there for the both of us.”

“Oh no, miss. I couldn’t possibly.” Mrs. Miller looked between them and her daughter. The girl’s eyes were akin to saucers. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“I understand,” Matthew said. “Perhaps I could find a place in the hayloft.” He’d itch for days and be doomed to bathing in the icy millstream, but at least he’d be out of the weather.

“But what if he’s followed us, Matty?” Tavie asked. “I’d feel so much safer with you nearby.” She turned to their hostess. “I know it’s unconventional, Mrs. Miller, but if you could see your way to help…?”

The widow stared hard at each of them. It didn’t matter that they were in the country and that she was desperate for a buyer. She didn’t give a fig for Tavie’s charm.

They should have stuck with their original lie.

“If you’re worried about romance, I can promise you nothing of the sort is on our minds. Matthew is already engaged to the loveliest young lady and, honestly, I’ve known him far too long to consider him anything other than a brother.”

This tangled story had just got worse. It was too complex and detailed—and unflattering.

Mrs. Miller ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“It would make me feel so much safer,” Tavie said, doubling her persuasion by placing her hand on Mrs. Miller’s forearm. “And I would hate for that lout to push his way into your home in the search for me.”

After a moment, Mrs. Miller squared her shoulders. Matthew braced for her refusal.

“Who am I to put myself in the place of the girl’s parents? And it’s only for a few days,” she said. “But you’ll each sleep on separate floors.”

What was a few more days in the grand scheme of things? Matthew offered Tavie his arm. “You know I hate it when you call me Matty.”

The crafty chit grinned at him, flush with her success.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.