Outrageous Page 8

  She frowned, her eyes wary and the set of her jaw pugnacious. “If I say I’ll go along with you—and promise not to give you the bag—will you leave my brother alone?”

  At the mention of her brother his hand tightened and she winced.

  He immediately released her. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes were dark with suspicion.

  “You will be my wife; your family will be my family.” It was all Godric could do to force the next words out. “I will not threaten or harm your brother. You have my word.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Very well. I shall try not to argue.” She cut him a sideways look he would have suspected of being flirtation from any other woman. “Although my father says I argue more than—er, well, probably most—other people.”

  Godric could well believe it.

  Chapter 6

  It was true the town of Cocklesham had two inns. But it was also true they were both very small and neither one was entirely appropriate for a woman of his betrothed’s status.

  Godric chose the better of the two options—although not better by much—but it was not the sort of place where he could leave her unattended in her room and spend his evening in the taproom.

  He registered them as plain Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, and was able to convey to the rather slovenly innkeeper that he would not be easy to deal with should any of the louts who were loitering around the premises find their way to the third floor of the inn, where he and Eva had taken the only two adjoining rooms, but no private parlor.

  Godric had briefly thought to ask for a local lass to act as Eva’s maid, as he’d done the night before, but he could see there was little chance of finding anyone respectable in the establishment. Instead, he waited until the innkeeper led them to their rooms, pressed a coin in his none-too-clean hand, and closed the door firmly after ordering hot wash water and two covers to be laid for them on the table in the larger of the two rooms. Once the man was gone, Godric checked the door and found the lock was broken. When he went to investigate the other chamber, he found the same condition there.

  “This is not what I would have liked,” Godric began when he came back to find Eva standing exactly where he’d left her. “I’d planned to give you privacy, but I fear I must keep the door open between us tonight. I will, of course, close it when you wash, but it would be unsafe to sleep in here without—”

  “I understand,” she said, her easy capitulation surprising him. He could see by the smudges beneath her eyes that she was more tired than she let on. “I’m not sure I can stay awake until the meal arrives.”

  They both glanced at the bed and Godric strode toward it and flicked back the sheet, grimacing. There were no vermin that he could see, but the bedding was stained and felt damp to the touch. He went to his room and took the well-worn blanket from the bed. It was faded but it smelled clean enough and was not musty.

  He returned to her. “Why don’t you lie down on top of the blanket and I’ll cover you with this—it is dry and clean.”

  She complied, as docile as a child in her exhaustion. Godric covered her with the blanket as she regarded him through sleepy eyes. “Now you don’t have a blanket.” A huge yawn distorted the last word.

  “You needn’t worry about that. Get some rest. I shall be in the next room.”

  Her eyes drifted shut before he even finished. Though it wasn’t cold, precisely, the room was excessively damp, which created a chill. So he fed more coal into her fire and stoked it into a blaze and then left the door between their rooms slightly ajar. He regarded his reflection in the fly-specked mirror that hung above the dresser. The man who peered back at him was as exhausted as Eva but looked at least four decades older. He almost felt as if he might be able to fall asleep, damp sheets or no. But he had a letter to write—one he’d avoided writing last night when he’d written to Eva’s father.

  When the servant came with cans of hot water, Godric asked for a quill and paper, already mentally composing the painful missive he would have to send the duke.

  * * *

  Eva woke with a start. The room was strange, and the only light came from the other side of the door, which was partially open. It took her a moment to recall where she was. Yes, at the inn in Cocklesham. Lord Visel had given her his blanket and she’d fallen immediately asleep.

  Her eyes strayed to the door and she recalled what he’d said: that he would keep the door between them open. A soft light glowed from the cracked door; so, he was awake. She turned onto her back and stared into the gloom above her head as sleep slowly dissipated. And then she remembered what he’d said in the carriage, about wanting to stop arguing.

  She’d been surprised by his kind words; he’d looked almost friendly when he’d said he wanted to make their marriage less contentious. And that he would see to it she did not have to live in London. He was, she knew, simply exhibiting common sense. They must marry. When her father learned what she’d done, which he would, now that James had gone . . .

  James.

  Eva chewed her lip to keep from scowling; she tried not to be angry with him, but she was furious. If he’d just done as they’d planned—but, no, Visel never would have let that stand, and James must have known it.

  It had all turned into a mess, and it wasn’t James’s fault. It was her fault. She told herself she’d bought Gabriel’s safety, even if the cost had been far higher than she’d expected. Still, Visel had told her she could live in the country—and choose her own cattle, and wear whatever she wanted. And he claimed to have an aunt who knew her way around a horse, so perhaps he wouldn’t be all stodgy about a wife who shared the same interest.

  Eva felt a twinge of anticipation at the thought of never having to go to a ton party or wear a dratted ball gown for the rest of her life. She realized she was smiling and shoved back the blanket. Her gown was a wrinkled mess, but that hardly signified—she always made a mess of her dresses, which was one of the reasons she preferred breeches. The other was—

  “Ah, you are awake.”

  She started at the sound of his voice and turned.

  Lord Visel was standing in the doorway between the rooms. He’d removed his drab overcoat and looked as fresh as a daisy in the clothing he’d been wearing all day—just as long as she’d been wearing her clothing. It never ceased to amaze her how she managed to stain, rip, lose—

  He came into her room. “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded.

  His mouth curved into a genuine smile—not the mean, smirky look he’d given her all Season. “Has the cat got your tongue?”

  Eva felt her face heat. “No, I’m still half asleep.” She gave him a squinty look. “As I recall from yesterday morning, you weren’t exactly chipper and cheerful when you just woke.” Good Lord—was that only yesterday?

  “Ah, but then you don’t have a goose egg on the back of your head,” he pointed out, gingerly feeling the back of his skull and wincing.

  Eva grunted.

  “Come,” he said, extending one of the hands she’d been mentally rhapsodizing about earlier. “I’ve ordered some bread, ham, and cheese. We can serve ourselves.”

  She stared at his hand until his expression became strained, and then took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. Which was when she realized he’d removed her shoes. She looked up quickly to find him watching. Always watching.

  “I thought you might sleep more comfortably without your shoes. Are you cold, or do you want me to take your cloak?”

  Eva hadn’t even noticed that she was still wearing it.

  “I must have been tired,” she said, looking up at him as her fingers picked at the knot she’d managed to make.

  “Here, let me.” His hands, warm and dry, moved hers aside and he looked down as he worked. “You’ve made quite a job of it,” he muttered.

  Eva took the opportunity to study him. The candlelight softened the lines that proclaimed his age, making him golden. His lips were slightly parted as he focused hi
s attention on the knot. They were fuller when he wasn’t sneering.

  He glanced up suddenly and their gazes locked, his hands going still. Looking into a person’s eyes at such close range was a rare intimacy; looking into his eyes made the blood roar in her ears.

  His pupils grew large and his nostrils flared. His breathing, she noticed from a long way away, sounded labored. She swayed toward him, feeling a pull that emanated from her chest, as if he’d sunk a hook into her and was reeling it in, reeling her in.

  He shuddered, like something had struck him, and his hands came around her upper arms and held her steady—then moved her slightly away. From him.

  They were both breathing hard, their eyes locked, Eva searching for an explanation for what had just happened.

  An emotion she didn’t recognize spasmed across his face and he stepped back. “You should be able to untie the rest. There is a table set in my room,” he said, gesturing vaguely in that direction. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.” He strode toward her door, opened it, and then closed it so softly behind him that she didn’t even hear the latch click.

  Eva remained in the same place, frozen, the thud thud thud of her heart loud in her ears, every nerve in her body poised on the brink of... something.

  She stared unseeingly at the door: What had all that been about?

  * * *

  What the devil had all that been about?

  Godric glared at the door he’d just closed, as if it were to blame for the cockstand in his breeches.

  Well done, Colonel Fleming, his inner critic mocked.

  Oh, shut up.

  He pressed the heel of his hand against an erection that was hard enough to break rocks and groaned at the pain/pleasure sensation.

  Turn around, go back in, and take her. Why not? You’ll be married in twenty-four hours—unless you get lucky and trees fall across every road to Scotland.

  Godric knew that was true, and yet . . .

  He paced the length of the dim hall and then back, thinking grim thoughts to combat his lust.

  Why combat it? Why behave like a guilty parson dipping into the church coffers? What difference does a matter of hours make?

  He paused and leaned against the wall, considering his behavior. Only a few days ago he’d been willing to kidnap a married woman and complete the job of ruining her reputation. And now he’d become all noble about bedding a woman he’d be stuck with for the rest of his days. Really, what did it matter when he bedded her? Before the ring was on her finger—metaphorically speaking, since he had no ring—or after?

  There’s a lad! Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had a woman—weeks. Mounting her would calm you and clear your head.

  Godric chewed the inside of his cheek; he wished he could head down to the taproom and continue drinking. Of course the four whiskeys he’d consumed while struggling to compose his damned letter were probably a large part of why he was currently as hard as granite and unable to control his rampant thoughts.

  He absently noticed the wretched condition of his boots. He’d given his valet of almost twenty years—a man with the unfortunate name of Darling—the entire month to spend with his family. Mainly because he’d not wanted him frowning at Godric the whole time he’d plotted to kidnap and humiliate another man’s wife. Godric could only imagine how Darling’s face would look if he heard a chit fresh from the schoolroom had kidnapped him instead.

  He groaned. What a bloody muddle this was.

  That’s the first sensible thought you’ve had in ten minutes. It is a muddle—one of her creation. You might as well get something out of it: like satiated.

  No, he told the lustful, nagging presence driving him. I know we shall be man and wife soon, and I’d much rather she doesn’t associate the loss of her maidenhood with dirty linen in a filthy inn.

  What a romantic you’ve turned out to be.

  Godric pushed off the wall; he’d already wasted enough time dithering in the corridor. He strode down the narrow, dingy hall toward the third door and yanked it open.

  Eva was seated facing the door and looked up, pausing in the act of lifting a small piece of cheese to her mouth with her fingers.

  His cock, which had begun to deflate, flared back to life at the sight of her plump, parted lips. Smug laughter echoed in his head.

  She lowered the untouched food back to her plate as he eased into the chair across from her. “I’m sorry, I would have waited for you but—”

  “No, I’m glad you didn’t.” He forced his mind away from his groin and looked across at her beautiful face, which currently wore a puzzled, questioning and innocent expression. “I needed to have a word with the innkeeper,” he lied, lifting the bottle of wine he’d ordered and sniffing its contents. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, but it wasn’t good, either.

  “Wine?” he asked.

  She hesitated and then nodded, pushing her glass toward him.

  Her hesitation made him wonder how often she drank.

  “I am soon to be married—surely I am old enough to merit a glass of wine.” Her wry tone sounded far older than her years, and her words made him realize she spoke the truth. So he poured her a glass.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You’d better use my name. It’s Godric,” he supplied, when she looked puzzled.

  “Godric.”

  Hearing his name come out of that beautiful mouth did nothing for the situation in his breeches.

  He swallowed down his lust and forced himself to assemble a sandwich of the thick bread, country ham, and crumbly white cheese. Perhaps some food would help clear his mind of lustful thoughts.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever known a Godric,” she said.

  “Yes, well, there aren’t too many of us about, thank God.” He took a bite of his sandwich, grimacing at the dry, stale bread.

  She put a small piece of food into her mouth, her actions dainty and precise, like those of a cat. “You don’t like your name?”

  He took a deep swallow of wine to wash down the food. “No,” he said when he’d finished masticating the tough bread.

  “Hmmm. I think it suits you.”

  Well, what could he say to that?

  “Do you think we shall have to stay here long?” she asked, and then took a drink, her lips twisting into a tight pucker.

  Dear God. She is just an infant—she isn’t even old enough to drink wine.

  “Godric?”

  He looked up from her wine-reddened lips. “Hmm?”

  “I asked how long you thought we’d be here?”

  “Not past tomorrow morning, I’m sure.”

  She glanced at the window, even though it was dark and shrouded with hideous green drapes. “It’s still raining.”

  He took another bite, not bothering to dispute her observation.

  “We could always go back to the main road.”

  Godric gave up on the sandwich and tossed aside the dry, stale bread. He took a bite of ham, chewing while he considered her suggestion, which was one he’d thought of as well.

  “If you’re worried about anyone seeing me, I promise I’ll stay hidden.”

  Godric looked at her as he swallowed and washed down his food with more wine. He’d taken the side road for precisely that purpose, to keep her from view.

  “Let’s wait and see what the weather is like in the morning,” he said mildly, not wishing to disturb the tenuous peace between them by shooting down her idea.

  “You said your family seat is in this area?”

  Godric pulled his gaze away from her mouth; he could not recall a time when he’d found the way a woman ate arousing.

  He saw she was waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”

  She frowned. “I asked if your family seat is in this area?”

  “We passed the road to Cross Hall a mile or so out of Doncaster, so it is southwest of here.” Godric experienced the same bittersweet burn in his chest he always did when he thoug
ht about his now empty family home.

  She finished the last drops in her glass and took one of the overripe strawberries from the small bowl and popped it into her mouth, sucking her thumb and index finger to clean off the juices.

  He’d had some of the most skilled courtesans in the major cities of Europe perform for his pleasure, but none of them could hold a candle to this mere scrap of a schoolgirl. And what was worse? She wasn’t doing this to tempt him—she appeared to have no interest in flirtation at all. And certainly not with him, a man she openly loathed. She plucked up another berry and he could only stare, his cock pulsing with frustration beneath the table.

  She saw his look and, thankfully, misinterpreted it. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks coloring in a way that would make portrait painters fight to the death to capture her likeness. “Gabe says my table manners are savage.”

  He flinched at the sound of the other man’s name and her strawberry-reddened mouth turned down at the corners.