Page 46 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

Stonehaven went to bed that night feeling happier than he could ever remember in his life before, a circumstance that was not lost on him.

When he had woken that dreadful day to discover himself blind, he had imagined his life to be over, or at least that it would be so small and confined he might as well be dead.

But he had proven himself wrong. With help from George and Bea, and from Beau and Anne, and the reverend too, he had realised he was far more capable and resilient than he had imagined.

Yes, he fell on his arse at regular intervals and banged his head and his shins.

His sore fingers, which seemed to be forever putting themselves in places they did not belong, were covered in small cuts and grazes.

Yet he persevered, and he had triumphed over everything life had thrown at him.

For a while he had considered it a battle, imagining that fate had cursed him for the fun of it, to see him struggle and fail again and again, and he had determined to win no matter what.

Now, however, he wondered if fate had truly been so unkind, or if perhaps, as the reverend had intimated, it was only asking him to be everything he could be, and his prize for rising to the challenge was Beatrice Honeywell.

His good mood was undiminished the next morning despite the prospect of another day of hellish travel, as their party reassembled to continue their journey.

They had agreed to carry on to Haven House, where Reverend Honeywell would marry Stonehaven and Bea in the private chapel on the estate after having procured a common licence.

Anne was less sanguine about returning to Haven House, for that part of the country held too many memories for her, and was far too close to her family home. Yet, she had put up her chin and determined that she would go, for she did not trust Stonehaven not to mess the thing up.

The journey was still interminable. One thing Stonehaven was very certain of was that travelling, for a blind man, was nothing short of torture.

Even for those with perfect vision, being jolted for hours on end in the confines of a carriage were trying.

Yet when the interest to be found in watching the passing scenery was taken from the equation, it became an exercise in stoicism.

It truly was akin to being shut up in a box and shaken for hours on end, with the inevitable result of feeling travelsick and gaining a pounding headache.

How much easier it was with Bea beside him, though.

They talked endlessly and easily, though he wished they were alone, without her father for chaperone so he could speak more intimately to her.

When he became grumpy and short-tempered, which he had to admit he did with regrettable predictability, it only took a soft word from her or the touch of her hand squeezing his fingers to soothe his bad temper.

They made good time that day, pushing on hard at his insistence despite feeling sick to his stomach, too eager to wed Bea to allow the journey to take a moment longer than was necessary.

He even suffered the indignity of having to demand the carriage halt so he could lean out of the door to cast up his accounts.

That had been mortifying, being in full view of his bride and her father.

After that, Bea had put her foot down and demanded they stop for the day.

He’d been in no state to argue. They broke their journey at Upper Clatford, a pretty village of thatched houses, which he remembered fondly.

He was well known here, as it was only a day’s ride from Haven House, and so the locals fell over themselves to be welcoming.

By that time, however, he was utterly exhausted and on the edge of a vile temper that threatened a full-blown tantrum if he did not get some peace.

They stopped at the Crook and Shears inn, which delighted Bea.

“Oh, how charming it is,” she exclaimed upon seeing it. “I have never seen such a pretty building. Indeed, the entire village is beautiful, with so many thatched cottages.”

“It is pretty,” he agreed wearily, managing a tired smile. His head was throbbing, and a late appearance by the sun had him squinting against the glare. It felt like hot needles stabbing him over and over and he wondered if he would throw up again.

“You’re worn to a thread,” she said gently, placing his hand on her arm. “Do you want to lie down?”

“With desperation,” he admitted grimly.

“Then you shall,” she said at once. “There’s a nice smooth path to the door but one uneven step. The lintel is low, too.”

Stonehaven followed her, using his stick to discover the step and putting his hand up to find the height of the lintel.

“Oh, but it is just as charming inside. There’s a fire lit and lots of polished horse brasses. There aren’t too many people in either, just three old men tucked up by the fire smoking pipes. How cosy it is.”

Her enthusiasm made him smile and the tiresome day seemed suddenly less awful if she was happy.

He wondered what she would make of Haven House, or if she had any idea what she was getting herself into.

Though he had discovered Beatrice Honeywell was far more spirited and stronger minded than one might imagine at first glance, she had not been raised to take charge of such a large household.

She had always seemed so shy and retiring, and whilst that had changed, managing staff was another matter.

Yet, those fears subsided as she guided him further inside.

Just as he was steeling himself to take charge, despite wanting only to collapse onto a bed and be still and quiet, Bea’s soft voice addressed the innkeeper.

“Good day, sir. I hope you can accommodate our party. I am Miss Honeywell. My father, Reverend Honeywell, is speaking with the ostlers at present, and my fiancé, Lord Stonehaven, has had a rather trying day. We all require rooms, a meal, and if possible, a hot bath for his lordship and some willow bark tea. As quickly as you are able, please.”

Her voice was quiet but authoritative, and if the innkeeper was surprised at an unmarried lady taking charge of things, he did not let on.

Stonehaven didn’t care, too grateful not to have to deal with it.

He listened with a swell of pride as Beatrice arranged for them to eat in a private parlour whilst their rooms were prepared, but demanded his room be made ready at once, so he could lie down.

“Is that all right?” she asked him anxiously. “Would you also prefer to eat in your room?”

“I would,” he replied, touched that she thought of it.

“Are you hungry now? We could ask for a sandwich to be sent up now, and you can eat later when you are feeling better?”

“Perfect,” he agreed with relief.

With a minimum of fuss, Bea arranged everything, handing him over to George, who went with him to his room. Stonehaven collapsed onto the bed, asleep even before George had divested him of his boots.

Stonehaven woke, much refreshed by his sleep but rather disorientated.

“George?”

“Here, sir,” George said at once. “I thought you’d be all at sea when you woke, so I took the liberty of remaining.”

“Good fellow,” Stonehaven said gruffly, rubbing a hand over his bristly chin. “Lord, I need a shave and a wash.”

“They boiled water for a bath, but you was dead to the world. I didn’t like to wake you, and Miss Bea told me not to.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly half past ten. There’s a piece of chicken pie there for you. Wine, too, and some fresh fruit.”

Stonehaven’s spirits plummeted. He’d been looking forward to spending a couple of hours with Bea, perhaps even managing a walk alone with her, if Anne allowed them the liberty, drat her. By now she’d be in bed, most likely asleep. He sighed.

“Fine, give me the pie. A wash at the basin will suffice, then. I’ll not have the entire staff running about at this hour.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I shave you?”

“No, no. In the morning,” he replied despondently.

Once he’d devoured the pie, which was good at least, he drank a glass of wine before setting about giving himself a proper wash. The soap escaped twice, once under the bed, meaning George had to crawl under to fetch it, but other than that he managed without upending the basin or flooding the room.

“Thank you, George. That will be all. Come to me at six thirty. I’d like to get the rest of this blasted journey over and done as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, my lord. Good night.”

Stonehaven grunted and got back into bed, staring up at the darkness his eyes registered, knowing that George had blown out the candles on his way.

One more day of travel, and then they’d be home.

Home for Beatrice now too. In a week, she’d be his wife, and he’d never have to sleep alone again.

Much cheered by this happy prospect, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Bea stared up at the darkness. Izzy’s breathing was a soft huff on the far side of the little room.

Moonlight glinted through a crack in the curtains and Bea thought about Stonehaven, and how tired and worn out he’d been.

She had wanted so much to look after him, to ensure he was comfortable and cared for, but it was out of the question, at least until they were married.

Not that she doubted George would see to it all splendidly, but it was hardly the same as being tended by one’s wife.

His wife. She smiled, her heart swelling at the prospect.