Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  After all, opportunities like the Hollanders’ expedition didn’t come twice in a man’s lifetime. And Asher still planned to sail away in just a handful of days.

  There wasn’t any time for more complications, or adventures, or . . . earth-shattering kisses in the grass. He needed to focus on getting to Avemore Abbey, then figure out a way to earn his passage.

  In the meantime, Winn was still his responsibility. His to keep safe. His for only one more day.

  “Stay close to my side,” he said, curling his hand tighter around hers.

  The Grinning Boar was not directly along the well-traveled route of the Great North Road, but it was near enough to make Asher wary.

  Night had just fallen over the sleepy village square, the oil lanterns gradually being brought to life. A handful of shop front windows were dark as mirror glass, their doorways enveloped in shadows. A stout man lingered near the long carriage house, his back pressed against the outer wall as he stared up at the stars through the rings of smoke he puffed from his pipe. On the other side, a woman laughed near the blacksmith’s hut as a tall, broad-shouldered man in a long leather apron leaned in to steal a kiss. And in the center, by the village well, a drunkard lay on the cobblestones with his head on his hat.

  Winn’s melodic laugh warmed the chilly stillness, and she whispered conspiratorially, “Are you afraid the lamplighter will use his ladder for nefarious purposes?”

  “This is no teasing matter,” Asher said sternly, wondering how he was going to gamble and watch over her at the same time. “Your eyes simply aren’t accustomed to seeing potential threats. The quaint fieldstone facade of the inn may look safe—even cozy—to the average passerby. However, behind the golden glow emanating from the windows, I see the shadows of a dozen or more men who may be deep in their cups and eager for a brawl. Unfortunately, that is precisely where I will have the best luck in finding a game of cards, and to win enough to provide us a night’s lodging as well as coaching fare for tomorrow morning.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “In just a few short miles, you’ve turned into a veritable curmudgeon. And you also seem to be wearing horse blinders. Has it occurred to you that there’s always another choice to be made? Or that I might have a better idea?”

  “Since your previous helpful suggestion was stealing a horse, I have a fairly good notion your plan would entail something that would land us both in irons.”

  “That was only one idea. All the others I have are perfectly legal.”

  She set her hands on her hips, the bodice of her dress straining to contain her magnificent breasts. One glance at her pouting lips and he was sorely tempted to kiss her. But he had to resist. He suspected that this runaway heiress posed the biggest threat to his future that he’d ever faced before.

  “All of them?” he asked, dubious.

  She shrugged, her shawl slipping down her shoulders. “Since you have no need for my assistance and want to continue running your solitary life the way you’ve always done, there’s hardly a point in telling you.”

  He bundled the shawl around her. “Such a stubborn creature, you are. Simply hate it when you don’t get your way.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. He leaned down and stole a quick kiss. Couldn’t resist, damn it all.

  “Just let me take care of things, Winn.”

  Her hazel eyes narrowed and glinted impishly in the lamplight, but she gave no further argument.

  A moment later, they stepped into the Grinning Boar. The air was thick with the scent of pipe smoke and the sweet, yeasty aroma of ale. A stout, bald-pated man stood behind a weathered bar. Through an oak-beamed archway, Asher spied several tables, each occupied by men either snoring or half-asleep over their pints.

  Not exactly the crowd of rabble-rousers Asher had anticipated. He’d have a difficult time finding a game of any sort.

  “Well, you were right about one thing,” Winn said cheekily. “They are deep in their cups. Perhaps you can wager on who will stay asleep the longest.”

  He slanted her a look and muttered, “I’ll come up with something.”

  The man behind the bar approached, pausing to call over his shoulder, “Wife, we’ve another pair of weary travelers.”

  “If they’re anything like those two maggots who spent the whole day drinking only to pay up with brass farthings, then send them away,” a shrill voice called back from beyond the slanted door on the far wall.

  The man shook his head and flashed a broad grin. “Pay no mind to that woman. I ken you need a place to rest your feet a spell, and we’ve a nice warm fire just there.” Draping a bit of toweling over his shoulder, he extended a meaty hand toward Asher. “Me name’s Oslo, and you’ll be pleased to know that me wife makes the finest lamb stew and shepherd’s pie in the land. Just don’t tell her I said so. It goes to her head.”

  Yet he spoke the words loud enough to be heard in the next county. An instant later, a tall, reedlike brunette emerged from the slanted doorway, carrying a tray so overladen with covered dishes that it might have weighed more than she did.

  “Sure enough,” she said, her words as clipped as her steps as she crossed the stone floor. “And I bake an apple tart that’s brought more than one man to his knees, begging for my hand in marriage.”

  “Modest as a butterfly, me wife,” Oslo added with a murmur and a wink.

  “And all it gets us is a fine reputation for letting the locals fall asleep at our tables.”

  “After a long, hard day and so much rain—not to mention those blasted threshers—to worry the farmers, this is a fine place to rest a weary mind.”

  “So is the dirt beneath the churchyard,” the wife said with a sniff. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, we need something to liven the place up and not any of your grand ideas about opening a gaming parlor. That would only attract more maggots.”

  Bollocks. The news didn’t bode well for Asher’s plans at all.

  Oslo looked to them as if to defend himself. “Not true. Why just today, we’ve even got a fine gentleman and lady in our rooms upstairs.”

  “And not a single enticement to draw them down,” his wife added.

  Asher felt a chill slide through him at the news that there were a lord and lady upstairs. He didn’t want to linger. There was too much of a chance that it might be someone he knew, or who knew of him.

  “You’re all the enticement anyone needs, me lovely,” Oslo said, pinching his wife’s cheek.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Always with the sweet talk when I’ve a point to make. All I know is that if I get more of their kind”—she lifted her gaze to the ceiling—“through our doors, then perhaps our rooms’d be filled every night.”

  “And why would you want that? Nearly broke my back carrying up pails of water because Lady Hoity-Toity demanded a bath after the lads had lugged three trunks upstairs already. Then borrowed your best scullery maid for the night to”—he paused to lift his little finger and bat his eyelashes—“assist with her toilet.”

  She huffed and looked directly at Winn, shifting the tray in her grasp. “Men! I hope your husband doesn’t give you half as much trouble.”

  “Sadly, he does. Mr. Strewsbury tends to believe he knows best in all things. Simply cannot take a single suggestion,” Winn said, sliding him a haughty glance.

  He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, ready to depart and come up with another plan. “A man has more experience and knows the ways of the world.”

  This got him another grin and a nod from Oslo.

  “Perhaps in certain circumstances,” Winn added, that impish light flickering in her eyes again. “However, if we had traveled in the direction that I had suggested, we never would have been robbed by a pair of highwaymen.”

  “No!” the owner’s wife gasped.

  Asher gritted his teeth and gave her hand a gentle but prodding tug. “Crumpet, there’s no need to tell that story again. After all, as the man said, they don’t have any rooms and it’
s growing late.”

  He would have to try his luck in the morning. For now, they needed to find a place to rest for the night.

  “Well, I’ve been up in arms for days,” she continued doggedly and patted his sleeve. “They took everything we had, even our instruments.”

  “Instruments?” The wife’s eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Are you musicians?”

  In that instant, Asher knew he’d lost the battle. Winn was going to have her way no matter what. He could feel it in the stubborn, steady beats of the pulse at her wrist, and see it on the faces of her rapt audience.

  Winn affected a bashful grin. “We do well enough at festivals, I suppose. And we have been on the stage a time or two, or a few dozen, but who keeps count of these things?”

  “Oslo, dear,” the wife said sweetly. “We could certainly spare a pint and a bit of dinner for a song or two, don’t you think?”

  Winn coyly looked up at Asher and batted her lashes. The little gloater. He nearly laughed. A man certainly had to admire such a wealth of tenacity.

  And the next thing he knew, Oslo was holding the tray while his wife announced—to a mostly slumbering audience—that they were about to be delighted by the world-famous Mrs. Strewsbury.

  In the meantime, as if donning a costume, Winn slipped the shawl from her shoulders, folded it on the bias and tied it around her waist. It had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing her delectable curves. Pleased with herself, she straightened her shoulders and looked up at him.

  Asher couldn’t take his eyes off her. He doubted any other man with a pulse would be able to either. And it was this thought that had him ready to drag her out.

  As if reading his mind, she wagged her finger and murmured, “If you take a single step into that taproom, it had better be to perform and for no other reason.”

  Gauntlet dropped, she sashayed to the hearth at the far wall and began to sing. And with the very first notes of the lively melody she’d learned from Mr. Champion earlier, the room came to life. Heads lifted from their pints, men scrubbing the gauze of sleep from their faces, while feet began to tap beneath the tables.

  Asher felt a helpless grin tug at the corners of his mouth as she flashed a triumphant smile. A mixture of pride, awe, and something he didn’t dare name stirred within his chest.

  “She’s a treasure, that one,” Oslo said after the first chorus, thrumming his fingers against the side of the tray.

  “Indeed, she is.”

  “Like me wife said, I can offer you food and drink, but we’ve no room. Well, unless you’d want the little loft above the boiling house out back. ’Tisn’t very big, but it’ll be yours for the night if you want it.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind,” Asher agreed with a nod, knowing that staying in the loft would put them beneath the notice of any lord and lady traveling. Not only that, but he knew that Winn would be appreciative for a place to lay her head, regardless of where it was.

  He still marveled at how she was different from anything he might have expected. Or from any other woman he’d ever known. He genuinely liked her. Too much, perhaps.

  It wouldn’t be easy to let her go.

  But he refused to think about that right now. Instead, he turned to Oslo. “You wouldn’t happen to have a lute, would you?”

  * * *

  Hours later, and after many more songs, they were finally settling down for the night on a pallet in the tiny loft of the boiling house, a pair of empty copper stills beneath them.

  Winnifred stretched out against his side. There wasn’t any need to bother with the pretense of putting a barrier between them, especially since there wasn’t any room. The two of them took up every inch of this cozy space.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my life,” she said on a yawn.

  He tucked her closer against him. “You were an absolute wonder. I never imagined such bawdy lyrics spilling from your lips. I’m quite scandalized.”

  “It would take far more than a few songs to scandalize you.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, yawning, too. “But I imagine more than half the men in the room fell irrevocably in love with you. They’ll be pining for Mrs. Strewsbury for the rest of their days.”

  She smiled into his shirtsleeves, her hand resting over the warm, steady throbbing of his heart. “At first, I was positively terrified to step in front of them. Then I looked at you and—”

  “And you wanted to put me in my place.”

  “Well, yes.” She laughed lightly. “I also noticed a keen change in myself. For most of my life I’d felt like I was wearing the wrong skin, and had the wrong hair, and needed to do something to change it all. Yet, when I was standing there and looked across at you, I felt like I’d been in the right skin all along. It’s peculiar, isn’t it? But it seems that I had to step away from everything I knew in order to appreciate the person I really am.”

  He was quiet for a minute, then lifted her hand to press a kiss to her palm before settling it back over his heart again. Other than that, he gave no response, but it didn’t matter. She was quite content.

  “And you were exceptional on the lute, Mr. Strewsbury. You surprised me.”

  “I know,” he said drowsily, a grin curling his voice. “And I’ve been wanting to crow all night about how you didn’t believe me . . . but now I’m too tired. You’ll have to deal with my overinflated ego in the morning.”

  There was such comforting assurance in the words in the morning while lying in his arms. It was a promise that he would be here for her, as well as an expectation that she would be here for him.

  Her parents’ marriage had never taught her about the sublime joy of spending each day with someone she cared for. And she cared for Asher far more than she ever thought possible in such a short span of time.

  A voice in the back of her mind warned her not to jump off the cliffs in Asherland and fall head over heels in love with him, but she was too exhausted to listen.

  “Why didn’t you ever marry an heiress?” she asked, her eyes drifting closed. “I’m certain you’ve had the opportunity.”

  “Are you offering, Winn?” he teased, brushing his hand soothingly down her back.

  “No.” She kept a wistful sigh to herself. “Simply curious.”

  “It’s difficult to say. All I know is that I could always find a reason not to.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured.

  Yet right before she drifted to sleep, she could have sworn she felt a kiss on her forehead and heard him whisper, “Though the real reason might be that . . . none of them were you.”

  Then again, she may have already been dreaming.

  Chapter 18

  Asher felt the delicate glide of fingers through his hair. A soft press of lips to his temple. And when he drew in a breath, it smelled of strawberries.

  He smiled and pulled the warm body next to him closer. “Good morning.”

  “Careful,” Winn said with a light laugh. “You’ll spill our tea. And after all the pains I went through to carry it up the ladder, you are required to appreciate every single drop.”

  At that, he opened his eyes, a frown knitting his brow. “You left the loft on your own? Without waking me first?”

  Blinking, he saw her sitting up, the handle of an earthenware pint in her hand, and his arm wrapped around her shapely legs.

  “I did wake you. Several times, in fact,” she said, tsking him for not remembering. “We even had a conversation where you argued that you were fully conscious and that your eyes were open. They were not. Though you have surprisingly lucid conversations when you are still asleep.”

  “My valet has mentioned something to this effect before,” he said absently as he rose up to his elbow. Taking the cup, he drank down a good portion of the tepid—but thankfully strong—brew. “Did I say anything else?”

  “Hmm . . . nothing of import. You did, however, refer to me as Mrs. Strewsbury and scolded me for not waking my husband with a kiss. You said it was quite rude
to badger you when you were clearly awake, and clearly in need of kissing.”

  Asher couldn’t recall ever blushing in his life, yet the sudden swell of heat prickling his cheeks indicated it may very well have been happening in that instant.

  Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Then, sitting up, he averted his face and carefully studied the construction of the cup and the dark liquid down in its depths. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “I brought a muffin, too,” she said, producing a brown cake within a folded cloth, which he took with gratitude, inclining his head. “Although I am sorry that the kitchen didn’t have any strawberries yet this season. You indicated that you enjoy them more than any other berry you’ve ever tasted.”

  Asher coughed on his first bite. Her hand descended to his back, patting him between the shoulder blades, and he took another long swallow of tea. He wished his sleep self wasn’t so bloody transparent.

  Deciding it was time for a change of topic, he said, “Did you sing like a lark again this morning, or did you venture on a sunrise raid through the kitchen?”

  “Neither,” she said with a shrug. “I just . . . thought you’d be hungry.”

  The hesitancy in her tone gained his full attention. As always, she was lovely, with her hair tied back in a black ribbon and wayward ringlets brushing her temples and cheeks. However, she was a terrible liar. She blinked owl-eyed at him and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Suspicious, he set his tea and bread aside. His gaze traveled the length of her green dress, all the way down to the shawl draped over the bottom half of her legs and feet. And when he peeled the russet wool away, she immediately tucked her slippers beneath her.

  “Winn, lift your skirts.”

  She splayed her hand over her knees and scooted over an inch. “Such a scoundrel. But we should really be on our way. In fact, I’ll climb down the ladder first and then yoouuu—”

  He snagged her about the waist and drew up her hem to see her shoes—one with his handkerchief tied in a neat bow on top—and her calves.

  Her lovely, bare calves.

  “Where are your stockings?” Yet he already knew. “You sold them, didn’t you?”