Page 7

B eneath the meager shelter of the eaves, Alistair stood overlooking the stable yard, his boots in one hand and greatcoat in the other, grateful for the second time that morning that he’d gone to sleep still decently clad in buckskin breeches and a shirt.

Some would surely quibble with the word decent . They would say it hardly applied to a gentleman wearing neither coat nor cravat. And regardless of his degree of dishabille, decent certainly did not comport with his behavior.

Well, almost decently, then.

Besides, no one need know about any of it. He had no intention of regaling his family and friends with the details of this journey. They need never hear how he had shared both a carriage and a bed with a woman he barely knew and did not trust. A woman he felt certain was something shy of respectable.

A woman against whose... person he had mindlessly rutted while she slept.

Good God.

Fortunately, nothing wilted an unwelcome cockstand like cold rain and self-recrimination. Effective even—perhaps especially —when one’s mind persisted in recalling the unexpected and undeniably pleasant plumpness of an otherwise slender woman’s bottom.

Shivering in the dawn air, he slipped his arms into his greatcoat and stepped into his boots. What ought he to do next? Return and apologize to Miss C. for his boorishness? Rouse the coachman and see what could be done to hurry the resumption of their travels?

If she were willing to continue, that was, or willing to continue with him. She might demand to be left in sole possession of the coach for which she had paid.

Jaw clenched, he descended the steps and crossed the yard. The horses had already been fed, and both the hostler and the coachman were also at their breakfast. Alistair hailed the latter. “What news about the repairs?”

“Good news, sir,” the man insisted with an encouraging nod, though Alistair heard a note of uncertainty in his voice. “’ Tweren’t the axle. Blacksmith says he can forge a new wheel pin that oughter last us the rest o’ the way. And th’ rest o’ th’ damage ain’t naught but what this chap”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the hostler—“and me together oughter be able to fix.”

There were rather more oughter s in that sentence than Alistair would have liked, but he nodded encouragingly. “That is good news. How long?”

One muscled shoulder rose. “Midday. Mebee.”

Each word rose slightly, like a question. A guess, then. But Alistair could only trust it was a guess borne of long experience. A midday departure would put them well behind schedule, and it might yet be delayed further by any number of things, particularly the weather. The sky, rather than growing lighter as the sun rose, had begun once more to darken. Nevertheless, the coachman’s words offered a spark of hope, and he would present it as such to Miss C.

When the time came, and he had no choice but to face her again.

“Very good, then. Keep me apprised of your progress. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

He was still not dressed for going out in public, but as the village streets were all but empty and he had no intention of doing more than walking down the main thoroughfare, he calculated that the state of his clothing was unlikely to matter to anyone.

Down the street a short distance and on the opposite side stood the village’s other pub. A shingle hung above the door, bearing a worn picture of a goose and some lettering he could not decipher at this distance. As he drew opposite of it, a young man with a shock of straw-colored hair and wearing an apron came out to sweep the step.

Alistair recalled Miss C.’s speculation that the rival barkeep had won the heart of the sister of the Coach and Cask’s proprietor. Before that moment, he had not suspected her of harboring romantic notions in her breast.

Then again, some degree of fantastical nonsense was to be expected from an artist.

The blond man paid him no attention and Alistair went on his way, up the street and past a few houses, a butcher’s shop, and a handsome stone church. When the buildings began to thin, he crossed to the other side and paused in front of a general store. Price’s Mercantile had been painted in gilt on the front window, which framed a display of gloves, ribbons, cologne in pretty cut-glass bottles, and a small wooden box containing an assortment of charcoal pencils and pastels, cunningly arranged beside a pad of heavy paper.

While he stood there, a young woman appeared behind the glass, feather duster in hand, and danced it over the items as she hummed some unfamiliar tune. He stood contemplating for a long moment, not really watching her, though it must have seemed so, he realized, when she finally saw him, gasped, and dropped the duster in the middle of the arrangement, just out of reach of her fingers.

There was nothing for it but to assist her.

He stepped to the door, found it still locked, and had to wait for the young woman to let him in. She turned the key with both hands, wearing an expression of suspicion.

She could not have been more than fifteen, his sister Harry’s age. “Did you want somethin’, sir?” She did not immediately step back from the door and make way for him to enter.

He gestured toward the window. “Your duster. You dropped it because I startled you. I thought perhaps I could assist you by retrieving it.”

“Oh!” She blinked up at him, stunned, then gestured him inside. “That’s awf’ly kind.”

With ease, he leaned over the modest display, fished the duster from the front of the window, and held it out to her.

She accepted it with a grateful curtsy and he turned to go.

His hand was on the door when she spoke again. “Was there somethin’ in the window that caught your notice, sir?” He glanced over his shoulder, uncertain of her meaning. Nothing about her demeanor could be described as preening or flirtatious. But it was clear she wanted to make a sale. She looked him up and down, a dubious expression on her face as she took in the state of his attire. “A new pair o’ gloves, p’rhaps?”

A reasonable suggestion, since he wasn’t wearing any at present. He’d left his behind with his hat, in the room above the Coach and Cask. Since the morning was cold, he’d been strolling with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his greatcoat, until his assistance to the shopgirl had required otherwise.

He looked past her, into the well of the window, where the odd assortment of wares was laid out, some items more eye-catching than others.

“The crayons, actually,” he said.

He hadn’t exactly been thinking of Miss C. as he’d stood on the street looking in. Except to the extent that since yesterday, he seemed always to be thinking of her, his thoughts bouncing from one extreme to another: from pity to annoyance, from distrust to—as of this morning—a most uncomfortable twinge of desire. How ludicrous for either of them to imagine they could make this journey without incurring any harm and then, at the end, pass her off as—of all things—a drawing master to his sisters.

Particularly given the fact that she no longer possessed any art supplies.

He tilted his head to one side, considering. Would it go better for him if he returned bearing gifts?

Surreptitiously, he slipped one hand back into his pocket and fingered the coins remaining there—the last of his own, which he had stubbornly kept separate from hers. “How much?”

“Two and sixpence,” she replied promptly—almost as if she could count through the heavy wool coat. “With the paper.”

Was it a wise investment of his remaining resources? Or a foolish one? Not that two shillings would get him far on his journey if Miss C. elected to leave him behind.

“Sold.” He withdrew his hand and proffered the coins.

She beamed, then tucked her duster behind her back, in the ribbon of her apron, and carefully lifted the box from the window and handed it to him to hold while she retrieved the pad of paper.

He was no judge of the quality of the implements. He only hoped they would not give further offense.

“I’ll just wrap these up, shall I?” Before he could reply, the girl took the small box from him and carried it and the paper deeper into the shop. “Are you an artist?” she asked when she returned a few moments later bearing an awkwardly shaped package tied with string.

“Certainly not.”

He spoke his denial more sharply than he had intended, as if she had flung an insult his way. The wariness returned to her eyes. “It’s only,” she explained, “that some folks do come here just to make pictures of the church.”

“Do they?”

“Aye. My papa ordered that paper special from London—took a notion someone might need it someday. But no one ever has.”

“Until now.” He lifted a hand to tip the hat he’d forgotten he was not wearing, then gestured lamely with the package instead. “Much obliged, miss.”

Tucking the art supplies under one arm, he stepped into the street, glancing back at the church before turning toward the Coach and Cask. With somewhat quicker steps than a quarter of an hour ago, he passed by the other pub, which he now saw was called the Jolly Gander; the blond man—Jem, perhaps—nodded to him as he polished his windows. Alistair crossed to its rival and went inside.

The small, low-ceilinged public room was empty and dim. He gazed with longing toward the hearth, though it was cold, before skirting the tables with chairs stacked atop them and making his way out the rear door. The stable yard was also quiet, and for a moment, he fancied he had been left behind.

But of course that was nonsense—the carriage could not have been repaired in time; not a single conveyance had passed along the roadway in the time he’d been gone; and Miss C. could not walk far.

Squaring the package and straightening his spine, he marched up the steps and into the barkeep’s quarters, which appeared at first glance to be empty too. The curtain around the man’s bed had been looped back, revealing a narrow, neatly made cot. The fellow successfully managed at least a few domestic tasks without his sister’s help, it seemed.

When the door clicked shut behind Alistair, Miss C.’s head peeked around the curtain at the opposite end of the room. Then, after a quick, assessing look at him, she stepped fully out and stood, unsmiling, with straight back and lifted chin. “My lord,” she said, not curtsying, her voice nearly as cool as the air outside.

Thanks to the even simpler styling of her second dress, she had managed to don it without his assistance. He fought down a surge of disappointment, along with the forbidden memory of the pale skin of her shoulders, the intriguing dips and hollows of her spine—all left shockingly unguarded by the usual cage of a corset.

Not that her present posture seemed to require any assistance.

Only her red-gold hair, tucked securely behind her ears but hanging in loose waves down her back, bright in spite of the gloom, offered any proof that his imagination hadn’t conjured the soft, sleep-tousled woman he’d awoken to find in his arms.

Suddenly concerned that his cold walk through the village hadn’t been sufficiently, er, quelling , he thrust the package behind his back and bowed stiffly. He would get the better of these unseemly thoughts. He focused on her bruised and scraped cheek, a visible reminder of the accident that had brought them together. Danger, his mind whispered. “I hope I didn’t disturb you when I went out this morning. I should have warned you that I am an early riser.”

She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw her lips twitch. “Indeed.”

Oh, dear. Had she taken the phrase early riser for a reference to his...?

“Tea?” she asked, smoothing one hand over her skirts and stepping toward the kitchen.

“You needn’t—” he began, but she seemed to want something to occupy herself. A few short moments later, she approached the table beside which he was standing, a cup of tea in her uninjured hand, a thick slice of buttered bread balanced on the saucer.

He refused the chair. “I have something for you. An—an—” An apology, he wanted to say. “A peace offering,” he said instead.

Now she glanced up into his face, a golden glimmer in her hazel eyes. “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“War?” Warmth crept into his cheeks. “Well, no...That is—” He laid the package on the table beside the teacup and took an overlarge bite of bread and butter to keep himself from saying anything more.

She approached a step closer and plucked uncertainly at the string that held the brown paper in place around the rather crumpled package, but she did not slip the knot. “From the shape, I gather it’s not a bonnet.”

“A bonnet? Er, no. That would have been—”

Improper.

Intimate.

Such would have been his answer just two days earlier. But given their present circumstances, the old rules for gift-giving, the conventional excuses, hardly seemed relevant.

“I was going to say that such a purchase would certainly have been practical ,” he lied, mortified. “A pity I didn’t think of it. But I’m not accustomed...that is, my sisters would protest the notion of me picking out their headgear. I haven’t much sense for such things, you see.” She was studying the movement of her own hand as she wound a loose end of string around her forefinger. “You might have a look for yourself, though. The shop’s just past the Jolly Gander—”

“The Jolly Gander?”

“The pub across the way.”

“Jem’s place, you mean.”

“Well, now, we don’t really—”

She sent him a sidelong glance, full of amusement. Teasing again.

At that, his lungs couldn’t seem to decide whether to heave a sigh of relief—she wasn’t furious with him, then, though she had every right to be—or to suck in a breath of...well, not surprise, exactly. Wonderment , perhaps? She really was quite clever.

And lovely.

Unable to both inhale and exhale at once, he sputtered and coughed instead, a predicament which only served to amuse her further. “It isn’t far,” he managed when he had recovered. “And we’ve ample time, I’m afraid. John Coachman says it will be midday at least before the carriage is repaired.”

“Oh.” Once more, the bit of string, now frayed, occupied all her attention. Clearly, the delay distressed her. “I’ve never really been one for frittering the hours away with shopping. But I suppose it will be something to do.”

He was struck with an idea. “Open it,” he urged, with a nod toward the package.

With a decisive tug, she slipped the knot free. One-handed, she peeled back the wrappings to reveal what was inside. She lifted the lid of the box to inspect its contents, then dragged a fingertip over the pad of paper, as if judging its quality. “You—you bought me art supplies.”

He did not know how to interpret the tone in which those words were spoken.

They wore an air of displeasure.

“I’m sorry if they’re the wrong thing. Or, or not the quality to which you’re accustomed. I only thought—”

Her chin rose, though she did not quite meet his eye. “You thought it would be easier to perpetuate the ruse of my being your sisters’ art teacher if I possessed at least some of the accoutrements of an artist.”

He’d considered the matter along those lines, it was true.

But in the end, just as he’d said, the purchase had not been inspired by practicality.

“There’s a church in the village.” The seeming non sequitur made her tip her head in his direction. Perhaps she was expecting an offer of marriage after his shocking conduct this morning—though not, the sharpness of her movement made clear, with anything like enthusiasm. “Quaint,” he pressed on. “Not far to walk. The girl in the shop said that people come to this village expressly to make sketches of it.” He paused again, weighing the many explanations for his conduct he could offer, up to and including the truth. “I thought it might make you feel better—more yourself—to draw.”

“More...myself,” she repeated. “You thought it might jog my memory, you mean.”

It wasn’t at all what he’d meant. He’d momentarily forgotten that she was still claiming not to know her own name, rather than simply keeping it from him.

“Surely you must wish that too?” he prompted.

“I—” Then she bit off whatever she had been about to say, sinking her upper teeth into the curve of her lower lip until the peach-pink color leached to white. “Of course,” she went on, once she had mastered whatever wayward thought had almost crossed her lips. “I’ll just fetch my pelisse.” She walked away, still moving stiffly—which might, he supposed, have as much to do with her feelings toward him as with her injuries.

She was back a few moments later wearing the aforementioned garment, shabby with the signs of her fall and too thin for the raw weather. No bonnet, of course, and no gloves either. They’d been shredded on the cobblestone street in front of his house, and what scraps had remained had been cut away by the physician to inspect her injuries. His plan, such as it was, seemed suddenly more likely to give her pneumonia than pleasure.

He’d intended to fetch his own hat and gloves before going back outside. Instead, he picked up the paper and box of crayons, tucking them in the breast of his greatcoat to protect them from the elements—and, perhaps, to keep himself from stretching out an arm to her and inviting her touch. Then he opened the door and bowed. “After you.”