Page 77 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Eighteen

How did a woman go about winning the man she was about to wed? The question bounced around Genevieve’s head with no answers forthcoming. Still, she was in heaven, arms wrapped around Lord Bowles with her body flush to his. They were crossing the River Tweed on the way to Coldstream, Khan’s hoovesclip-cloppingon the empty bridge.

The day’s fright—being caught by Reinhard—drove home a truth. She cared deeply for Lord Bowles. He held some affection for her, but how deep, she couldn’t be sure. Resting her cheek against his wool-covered back, she hoped for more than a winter with him.

Odds were stacked against her. That wasn’t new.

She had a short time to be wed to him. A fortnight? The winter? Much of their wedded bliss would be spent apart—all in the name of keeping the Wolf at bay. Lord Bowles was determined to deliver her to her grandmother, a plan she couldn’t argue against. He’d made a fine point. Marriage and hiding her in another village would defeat Herr Wolf.

Had Lord Bowles been as single-minded with other women he’d entangled himself with? Or was this something reserved for her alone?

The full moon glowed a gentle light on their slow ride from Pallinsburn. Khan’s hindquarters lumbered beneath her. With her skirts hiked, her legs fit neatly against Lord Bowles’s legs, her body mashing against his.

She set her chin on his back. “Is this how you win the hearts of women, milord? Take them on moonlit rides?”

“I confess to doing many things late at night.” His head turned, showing his fine profile. “But you’d be the first to ride Khan with me at any hour, day or night.”

“And the first you’ll wed and leave on another’s doorstep.”

Moonlight glimmered on his breath, the air crisp and cold. “I confess I have my doubts as to the wisdom of leaving you behind.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to stay in Coldstream? Or are you admitting you’ll miss your housekeeper?”

He chuckled, the rumble vibrating from his body to hers. “I forgot about that. Now I can hire a proper housekeeper. One who cleans chamber pots.”

A bitter pang hit her. Another woman would tend him. “Think of all the bath-time conversation you’ll miss,” she said, trying to keep the mood light. “No proper housekeeper will bring a cheroot to you in your bath.”

“Very true. I’ve grown accustomed to your impertinent negotiations. I may have a difficult time adjusting.”

She twirled his queue hanging over his collar. “Life will be dull at Pallinsburn without me.”

“It will indeed,” he said, a touch sad.

Coldstream village lay ahead. A night bird circled overhead, its soft evening song the only sound, save Khan’s hoovesclip-cloppingand the River Tweed’s gentle flow.

“What?” she teased. “You’ve no retort? I expect you’ll chase the laundress.”

“Certainly not. I’ll be a married man.”

“You won’t have yourwifeunderfoot.”

“A perfect marital arrangement,” he said lightly, but his voice lost its usual liveliness.

“Which means you’ll be free to go aboutgentlingwomen.”

“No gentling of the ladies unless they’re the four-legged variety.” He spoke over his shoulder, his cocked hat shadowing his features.

Brightness swelled inside her, leaving her light and happy. “Dare I believe you’ll be faithful to me?”

“Or you to me?” he shot back.

She nestled her cheek against him. “You’ll be the only gentleman for me.”

She stilled, her eyes flaring wide in the dark. Her confession dripped with contentment and deeper affections. She braced herself for a kindly setdown or a jest. None came. It was difficult to know what Lord Bowles was thinking. This was all very awkward yet strangely natural, like putting on a favorite comfortable gown. Being with Lord Bowles fit. Yet she couldn’t lose herself here. He was doing her a great favor by marrying her; she couldn’t let romantic ideas gallop out of control.

Lord Bowles steered Khan toward a cottage behind a copse of trees. Beyond the cottage, an anvil-shaped sign hung over large double doors, the name McTavish painted in white on the anvil.

“Here we are. The blacksmith’s home.”