Chapter Ten
Althea had never been this tired in all her life. They had been riding along the road for almost two hours. At least the clouds had dispersed. In an effort to distract herself from Montsimon’s proximity, she raised her head to admire the night sky, which looked as if a giant’s hand had strewn diamonds across an immense dark lake.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Montsimon said.
“Indeed, if only I could view it from my window in Mayfair.”
“Embrace the adventure, Lady Brookwood.”
“You are shockingly loose in the haft, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Such language from a lady.”
“I am trying to come up with something better,” she said bitterly.
She fought to hold herself away from him, but it was impossible. His hard thigh cradled her derriere in the most embarrassing fashion. She grew too tired to care and slumped back against him. “How much longer?”
“A while yet.”
Was there a hint of mirth in his voice? He was enjoying this! How dare he! She attempted to find a more discreet position, then froze. Was that what she suspected it was?
Montsimon gave a soft laugh. “My gun is in my pocket, but if you wriggle your bottom against me what do you expect?”
“Stop! I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We are miles from the inn.”
“What inn?”
He sighed. “The Old Gate in Canterbury. I’ll arrange for a bedchamber. You can rest while I conduct my business.”
“What business might you have in such a place?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a remarkably inquisitive woman?”
She huffed. “I believe I have a right.”
“I daresay you do.”
He sounded as weary as she was, but she straightened her spine. It would not do to feel too sorry for him.
“Why Canterbury?” She tried to turn her head to gauge his expression but gave up, fearing it would bring her face too close to his. “An inn in Kent seems an unusual venue for a diplomatic meeting. Diplomats mix in exalted circles. This is hardly the Congress of Vienna.”
“I could have traveled to Canterbury in considerable comfort, Lady Brookwood, but I had to make sure you weren’t followed.”
“It appears you have overdone it somewhat.”
“I did not intend this to happen.”
He sounded despondent. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. “The best laid plans, Montsimon?”
“Hastily made, because of an unforeseen problem.”
“I am that problem?”
“Not precisely, Lady Brookwood.”
Their intimate position made his use of her title seem odd. She wondered how her given name would sound on his Irish tongue. “I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but why on earth would anyone wish to follow me?”
“You are most definitely ungrateful,” he said wearily. “They’d follow because they wish to get you alone.”
“Crowthorne?” She swallowed. “I will not give him another chance.”
“That depends on how determined he is in his pursuit of you.” He yawned. “I’ll be happy to be proved wrong. I intend to find out what’s driving him. It can’t merely be your allure or your humble cottage.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” she said with a touch of irony. “I see you are resting your diplomatic skills along with the horse. As I have told you, Sir Horace wants to put a road through my land.”
“Mmm. I like your perfume. Is it roses?” He yawned again.
“It’s called Attar of Roses. You’re not falling asleep, are you?”
“With a lovely bundle in my arms?” He chuckled. “What sort of man would I be?”
“A tired one I imagine.” Her own lids were threatening to close. She sat up suddenly at a flicker of light glowing in the dark.
“Careful!” One big hand flattened against her stomach as the horse’s gait faltered.
She shifted away from his warm hand. “There’s a light over there, through those trees.”
“I don’t see it, where?”
They approached a bend, the road bordered by large trees. “I can’t see it now.”
“I doubt a farmer would be up at this hour,” he said. “It might have been moonlight reflecting on a roof.”
“A farmer tending to a sick animal, perhaps. It’s the wrong time of year for foaling.”
“You know about farming?”
She noted his surprise. “My father was a farmer.”
“How did you come to marry Lord Brookwood?”
“Father was the third son of a baron. We were not poor,” she said defensively. She had suffered enough criticism from her husband to last a lifetime.
“Oh? Which baron?”
“A small barony in Dover. Lord Freemont, long dead and the property gone for taxes.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you came to marry Lord Brookwood.”
“In a church in the usual way,” she said crisply.
“I suspect there is a lot more you aren’t telling me,” he said, in a quiet voice.
“Perhaps. But this is hardly the time,” she murmured uneasily. Was his gentle tone meant to disarm her? She would not discuss her sorry past with him now, or ever.
The horse stumbled. “We should dismount.” He pulled on the reins. “The horse tires, walking him will wake us up.”
He helped her down. She stretched her stiff limbs and glanced with dismay at her beaded evening slippers. If only she wore her sturdy, leather half boots. He might have warned her! She could be wearing a wool gown instead of this light silk. But if he had warned her, she reasoned, she’d be enjoying the Canning’s dinner.
Glad of the moonlight, Althea walked with him along the rough road, skirting moonlit puddles. She enjoyed her garden lit by moonlight. But she’d had more than enough of fresh air and moonlight this evening.
They fell silent, the horse clopping along beside them with Montsimon holding the rein. An owl hooted and flew from a tree into the sky. Althea felt every pebble through her thin, silk slippers and stifled the pain of a stubbed toe, afraid Montsimon would be obliged to carry her. But she failed to suppress a shudder when the cold breeze lifted her cloak. There was only so much she could endure without complaint.
“I’m chilled through,” she grumbled.
Montsimon looped the reins over his arm. He removed his leather gloves. “Give me your hands.”
Surprised, she obeyed without argument. She stilled as he peeled off her thin white evening gloves, one finger at a time. It might have been erotic if her fingertips weren’t on the verge of frostbite.
He placed her hands between his large ones and rubbed them. They began to warm as did the rest of her in a disturbing fashion. “Where is Spot tonight?” she asked to distract herself from their closeness.
“He is at home in the stables standing guard over a new litter. Spot is now a father with responsibilities.”
She laughed. “At least you are no longer the focus of his attention.”
He grinned. “I don’t expect it to last. Put these on.” He handed her his leather gloves.
“Oh no, I cannot.”
“Please. Otherwise I’ll feel guilty.”
“If we are beset by robbers, I shall be sure to remind you of how guilty you are,” she said, pulling on his gloves.
She had to lace her fingers to hold the large gloves on, but her hands were warmer. The road seemed endless, winding away through the trees. How long until dawn? Her stomach growled.
“You’re hungry. I should have thought of that,” he said.
“Yes, we could’ve had a picnic.”
“Hunger does not improve your disposition,” he observed.
“I missed dinner at the Cannings,” she said, her voice laden with regret. “It would have been delicious.” Visions of venison, oysters, and champagne made her salivate.
Amusement softened his voice. “I’ll see if I can rustle up a chicken leg when we get to the inn.”
“It’s grown so late,” she said. “I doubt they’ll even admit us.” She gasped. “There is a light!” She grabbed Montsimon’s sleeve. “See!”
“I do believe you’re right!”
They increased their pace in the direction of a faint, flickering light, which vanished then reappeared through the swaying trees.
A farm building emerged out of the dark, nestled amongst bushes. Lamplight shone from a window. Montsimon stopped to loop the reins over the low branch of a fir tree. “You wait here. I’ll go and see who it is.”
“Oh no, Montsimon! You are not leaving me here alone.”
“I need you to mind the horse.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “I think the horse can look after itself.”
He grinned and looked her up and down as if judging her small stature. “And I wouldn’t advise you to ride away on him. If you can mount him. He’s close on seventeen hands.”
She hitched up the gloves sliding off her fingers. “Are you casting aspersions on my lack of height?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I very much approve of how you’re put together.”
She reddened. “How audacious! You’ve lost your manners entirely.”
“We are not at a ball, Lady Brookwood. I would prefer to find the animal here when I return. And that goes for you, too.”
“You don’t trust that I will be, evidently.”
He eyed her. “Not for one moment. You are most dreadfully stubborn.”
“I am not the stubborn one here, my lord.” She opened her mouth to give him a further dressing down, but clamped it shut when he strode away.
There was some sense to his reasoning. Who knew what might lie behind that light? His having to protect her hampered him. For not entirely selfish reasons, she hoped he’d return soon, and in one piece. She leaned against the tree’s rough bark and watched him break into a powerful run across the moonlit meadow. Maddening man, she would bet nothing ever penetrated his self-assurance. She would like to be the one to do it, just once!
*
Conscious of the lady in his care, Flynn was not happy with how things had gone. If only Ben hadn’t run the other carriage into a ditch and turned up with only one horse, they would have reached Canterbury in comfort and at a reasonable hour.
Flynn brushed aside bushes and crept to the window where lamplight shone out. Inside the stable, a lamp sat on a bench where the farmer bent over a horse lying on the straw. Althea had guessed right. A rifle was propped against the wall near him. Flynn didn’t wish to surprise the fellow and be shot through with holes for his pains. He walked cautiously through the door keeping his hands in view. “I’m pleased to find someone still awake at this late hour.”
Startled, the man glanced up. Flynn offered him a warm smile as the man grabbed his rifle. He leveled it at Flynn. “Who are ye? What do ye want?”
“Lord Montsimon. A carriage accident,” Flynn said. “Lady Montsimon waits with the horse.”
The man nodded cautiously. His keen gaze took in Flynn’s fine clothes. “Unfortunate, my lord.” He was a sturdy fellow, broad shouldered. “A cold night to be about. Bring the lady to the house. I’ll raise my wife to tend ye.”
“We will be most appreciative, thank you, sir,” Flynn said.
“Any one hurt? Servants, the carriage horses?”
“No. Only Lady Montsimon and I in the phaeton.”
“Very risky to ride about in the dark, my lord.” The man’s eyes turned sharp.
Flynn raced excuses through his brain. “We were returning home from visiting my wife’s mother. A fox startled the horse and the damn thing took off. We left the road, got lost, and the carriage ended up in a ditch. We are making for Canterbury where we have relatives.”
The man nodded.
“Could I borrow your cart? I shall pay you handsomely.”
The man shook his head. “My son has the use of the dray. Won’t return until daylight.”
Flynn stifled a sigh. “I wonder if we might await him here.”
“Of course. Ye are welcome to stay the night. But ye will find the accommodation less than ye are used to. I’ll stable your horse, and my son can drive ye to Canterbury after breakfast.”
“Kind of you. I’ll fetch Lady Montsimon.”
As Flynn made his way back to Althea, he realized he no longer thought of her as Lady Brookwood. She emerged from behind the tree straightening her clothes. “Oh! I didn’t expect you to be so quick.”
Even in the poor light, he saw her face redden. He tamped down a smile as he unloosed the reins. “We have a bed for the night.”
“And something to eat?”
He smiled at her hopeful voice. “I’m sure they can be persuaded to feed us.”
She tripped along beside him. He slowed; he’d forgotten how two of her steps equaled one of his. “There’s just one thing.”
“What?”
“You are Lady Montsimon.”
She stopped. “Why did you tell them I was your wife?”
“I could hardly say otherwise. These simple farm folk can be high-minded. Please try to hurry.”
“You might have said I was your sister.”
“We are nothing alike. And you’re not Irish.”
She shot him an assessing look. “I doubt they would notice.”
“I bet his wife would. Do you want a warm bed for the rest of the night or not?”
Her expression was laden with mistrust. “I do, but not with you in it.”
“Let’s view the sleeping arrangements before we argue.” Flynn pulled a diamond ring from his pinkie finger. “Put this on, Lady Montsimon.”
She did so without comment, making him hope he might be in with a chance.
“But we are not sleeping together,” she repeated.
“How do we explain that to them?” He grunted. “You are entirely safe with me, I assure you. A man needs some sleep before seducing a woman.” This was not essentially true. “To do it well, in any case. I prefer to be thorough.”
“Many couples don’t sleep together,” she said in an edgy voice.
“You speak of the ton. Farmers and their wives sleep in the same bed.”
“How do you know? You’re guessing.”
“It’s a matter of available bedchambers. Did you sleep with your husband?”
She gave a disgusted snort. “What a question!”
“I find it reasonable. After all, you are asserting that couples don’t sleep together. And I wondered…”
“You wonder far too much,” she snapped.
“Very well, I apologize. Here’s the farmhouse. We shall take the horse to the stables. The gentleman has a sick horse.”
“So my guess was right?”
“Yes. Although I don’t see why you need to mention it.”
“Because you are so grudging in your praise.”
Flynn held aside a bush and led the horse through. He waited, holding the branch for her.
“It’s a neat farm.” Althea ducked under his arm. “Montsimon,” she said in a breathless voice, “do you think you could help me keep my property?”
He wasn’t about to encourage her to hang onto something that might get her killed. “Why is that little cottage so important to you? Does it hold happy memories of your marriage?”
“No it doesn’t.”
Flynn turned to search her face.
“You are far too inquisitive about my marriage, my lord.”
He found he was. “But why keep the house when it will cause you so much trouble?”
She raised her chin. “Owltree Cottage is mine. That’s all there is to it. I don’t see why it needs explaining.”
They reached the stables, and Flynn led the horse inside. The farmer rose from beside his horse.
“Fletcher, your ladyship.” He gave an embarrassed smile and half-bowed. “Mrs. Fletcher is in quite a flutter at the thought of meeting you.”
“So good of you to take us in at this ungodly hour.” Althea walked across the straw to where the horse lay shuddering. “What is wrong with your mare, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Darned if I know, your ladyship.” He looked horror-struck. “Please excuse my language! I’ve been up all night. But I believe the horse is rallying.”
“Does she have a fever?”
“No.”
“Might she have eaten something that disagreed with her?”
He scratched his head. “It’s entirely possible. The animal did get out of the paddock earlier. I found her in the herb garden.”
“My father always considered it best to keep a sick horse eating unless they’re colicky.”
Fletcher’s eyes widened. “He did?”
“Father was a farmer, too. He would keep the animal warm and begin to feed it lucerne as soon as it rallied. For a limited period, lucerne hay is very nourishing, although it can cause bloat long term.” She smiled. “Of course you must know this.”
Fletcher bowed again, respect in his gaze. “Your father was well-informed in the ways of animal husbandry, your ladyship.” He began to remove the bit, bridle, and saddle from Flynn’s horse. “You’ll be wanting a hot drink and some food. Please go on up to the house. My wife has stoked up the fire.”
“I believe you impressed Fletcher,” Flynn said as they walked along a path bordered by shrubs to the farmhouse. The lady of the house was busy preparing to receive them. The windows of the whitewashed building where alight and smoke rose from the chimney in the thatched roof.
The door swung open. A short, rounded woman with a white cap and an apron over her dress dithered in the doorway, her cheeks reddened, her eyes wide. “Lord and Lady Montsimon. Please, please come in.”
Flynn noticed her dress was buttoned up wrongly as she bustled inside. “Come into the parlor. The fire is well ablaze.”
“How kind of you to rise from your bed to attend us, Mrs. Fletcher,” Althea said warmly as Montsimon helped her out of her cape.
“It’s my pleasure, my lady,” Mrs. Fletcher said in a breathy voice. “I have laid a table with food for ye. Fletcher has ale for ye, too, my lord.”
The modest parlor was simply furnished and comfortable with a brown sofa and well-worn green chairs by the fireplace, a pipe stand on the table beside it. A table was spread with a cloth and laden with plates, bread, cheese, a cold joint of meat, and a pie of some sort.
“We are beholden,” Althea said appreciatively, “are we not, Montsimon?”
“Indeed, we are.” He smiled at Althea. Her enthusiasm was almost tangible.
“After you’ve eaten,” Mrs. Fletcher said, “I have made the bed up in our son’s bedchamber with clean linen. It’s a small room, but I hope it will suffice.”
“We shall be eternally grateful, Mrs. Fletcher,” Flynn said. He put an arm around Althea’s waist. “We are bone weary, are we not, my love?”
Althea cast him a look that would put a thundercloud to shame. She stepped forward out of his embrace. “Yes. I declare I shall sleep like the dead.”