They stopped only long enough to switch the team and see to their personal needs. Ian even insisted they eat while on the move. She was exhausted from the grueling pace he’d set. More than once, she’d fallen asleep, and he had to waken her when the coach rolled into an inn’s dark and dusty courtyard. Vangie sought her bed each night right after supping.
She shifted on the bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Her backside was sore from the hours and hours of sitting and bouncing along in the couch-and-four. Her heart was far sorer. After their wedding night, Ian hadn’t sought her bed again. Each night her hopes were dashed anew when he procured separate rooms for them at the posting houses along their route.
Staring at the fingers of moonlight dancing across the ceiling’s beams, she played with an escaped curl. Except to hand her in and out of the carriage, he touched her not at all. Nor did he keep her company within the carriage’s boring confines. He rode his stallion during the day, only joining her after sunset.
His demeanor was coolly polite. More than once, she thought she saw a glimpse of what appeared to be remorse in his eyes. Was he regretting marrying her already? Had she so dissatisfied him on their wedding night he was now averse to touching her?
A nasty twinge gripped the region near her heart. She wrapped the strand of hair around her finger several times. She’d tried to show him she’d been willing, at least, until the awfulness occurred. Vangie toyed with the curl, perplexed. The things Ian had done to her before. . .
The way he made her feel had been utterly exquisite, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Why had it ended so poorly? Why was he opposed to lying with her now?
Those delicious little quivers still fluttered along her senses when he looked at her. All it took was one touch from him, and she was willing to throw herself into his arms once more, despite her misgivings about their initial union. She wasn’t immune to him. In fact, he . . . intrigued her. At least that’s what she was calling it.
Forgiving by nature, Vangie felt only compassion for him, that he should be encumbered with such a monstrous male disfigurement. She’d no more mock him for it than she’d tease someone with a prominent nose or great oafish feet.
One couldn’t help if they were born with oversized ears, or large protruding teeth. Ian’s acceptance of his irregularity spoke highly of his character. He’d not once apologized for its appearance. True, she found it uncomfortable when they’d been intimate, but she’d resolved to make the best of the situation.
She’d hoped to get a child from the marriage, someone to love, and who’d love her unconditionally in return. A difficult task, to be sure, when one’s husband declined to share one’s bed, even if the initial experience had been something short of ideal. Heat swept her face. It was demeaning to be spurned so early on.
Vangie would try to be a good wife to Ian, if he’d let her. She knew he was angry and disappointed at being forced into marriage. But hadn’t the settlement tempered his disenchantment? And she wasn’t wholly repugnant, else why would those gentlemen in London have been so attentive?
She grimaced. Albeit, usually inappropriately so.
Rolling onto her side, she dangled a foot off the mattress. She’d attempted to talk with Ian their first evening of traveling. He’d climbed into the coach, settling across from her, his legs stretched before him.
“It’s cooling rapidly this evening.” Oh, bother, she scolded herself. Couldn’t she invent something cleverer than that drivel? Talk of the temperature? Every featherheaded ninnyhammer in London babbled on about the temperature or the weather or their latest bonnet.
“Indeed.”
Polite. Cool. Reserved.
“Have we far to travel yet?” In the darkened carriage, Vangie rolled her eyes in self-disgust.
Simkin. Of course we do. We’ve but started the journey.
Vangie floundered a bit more, “Today, er, tonight, I mean.”
“A bit.”
“Your stallion, he’s Arabian, is he not?”
“Yes.”
That was it. She gave up. She was done over.
He obviously didn’t want to converse with her. She retreated into confused silence. Moments later, she heard the striking of flint as Ian lit the oil lamp. The revealing light wasn’t welcome.
Through lowered lashes, she watched him settle into the corner on his side of the carriage—without uttering a sound. The man certainly was a miser with his words.
Idly twisting a loose button on her emerald-green jacket, she frowned and looked downward. Best to stop before it came off. She had no other jacket with her. Yvette had pressed Vangie to take some of her clothes, but she’d refused. Her kind-hearted cousin didn’t understand how demoralizing it was to always be accepting charity. Besides, her aunt, uncle, and cousin had already been too generous by far.
Vangie turned her head to peer out the window. It was dark, so there was naught to look at. It was far more likely she’d see a shooting star than receive a morsel of kindness from her husband. A wistful sigh escaped, but she was quick to suppress it lest he hear. She wouldn’t wallow in self-pity.
She fingered the worn, faded cuffs of her spencer. She hadn’t many clothes. Those she did have were castoffs. She’d worn them for at least three years, and they showed signs of the constant wear. Tucking her scuffed half boots beneath her skirt, she lifted her hands to remove the plain straw bonnet atop her head. She’d no doubt she’d doze off again and couldn’t chance crushing the humble accessory. She only owned one other bonnet, and it was far too warm for springtime wear.
The clothing Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid purchased for her always remained with them when she departed. She’d taken to borrowing Yvette’s rather than have them go to the unnecessary expense of purchasing garments she’d only leave behind. The first few times she’d returned home with new clothing, Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia had confiscated them, selling the garments for her keep, as was their right, they claimed. They’d made it clear she’d been a burden to them all these years.
Greedy buggers. She earned her way, and she suspected Uncle Gideon continued to send them monies regularly. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Puri Daj hadn’t compensated them too.
Vangie allowed herself a naughty smile. Despite begrudging her every meal, Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival would not be pleased she’d wed. They quite liked the monies her presence afforded them. Placing the hat atop the reticule she’d crocheted herself, she turned her attention to the inglorious night once more.
She awoke to the bouncing of the coach as Ian hopped to the ground. After eating a quick meal, she’d bathed, and then gratefully crawled into bed.
And lain there for hours, wide awake, her mind churning.
Now, eyes gritty with fatigue, she stared at the dancing moonbeams cavorting across the rustic ceiling and walls. The moonlight, bright as day, taunted her, daring her to seek slumber’s peace and its welcoming forgetfulness.
Three nights ago Ian bedded her.
In her mind she replayed his tenderness, the regret and undisguised shame, the genuine remorse he’d expressed after discovering his error. She’d been absorbed in her own misery, and only now had it occurred to her, he must be suffering too. Every instinct told her he was a bari man, a good man, at heart, and Puri Daj always said, “God looks at the heart.”
Yawning, Vangie turned over, smiling into her bumpy pillow. She could sleep now. She had a plan.
Tomorrow . . .
Chapter 15
Ian watched the raindrops scampering after one another on the foggy carriage window. One night remained before they reached his home. Late this afternoon, the weather turned beastly, reflecting his dismal mood. A passing storm’s clouds drenched the travelers, forcing him to forsake the saddle he preferred, and seek the dry, lamp-lit interior of the luxurious coach.
He climbed in, dripping wet. Sitting, he lifted off his hat then removed his gloves, before he went to work unfastening his greatcoat. Once his sodden g
arments were lying beside him, he relaxed against the seat, arms folded.
Sitting across from Vangie, Ian saw her bewilderment. He recognized it in her soulful eyes and sad smile. He called himself a hundred kinds of fool. She’d not complained an iota, but instead had been amiable and sweet-tempered the entire journey.
He’d neglected her miserably, leaving her alone everyday in the coach-and-four. Truth to tell, he wanted her desperately and didn’t trust himself. One kind word, one soft touch or yearning look and he’d been undone, no doubt lifting her skirts and taking her right there in the coach.
On the floor. On the seat. In his lap—
Blast it all, cease man.
The thought of claiming her once more quickened his pulse. He shifted on the buttoned leather, rearranging his legs. He was careful to keep his face concealed in shadows where the lamp’s meager glow didn’t reach. He didn’t want her to see him studying her, afraid she’d see the desire he couldn’t conceal in his eyes.
Or bulging in his pantaloons.
He’d hurt Vangie once. He’d not do so again, not intentionally leastways. Retreating into the controlled, impersonal shell he adopted as a child, where he didn’t permit himself to feel anything, served his purpose well.
Only he did feel.
Something elusive, mystifying, and consuming.
Drivel.
Something haunting his increasingly distracted waking moments and his evermore restless nights.
Rubbish and balderdash.
His heart skipped a beat, and turned over in an unfamiliar prickly manner.
Dunderheaded dolt.
Ian heard Vangie’s muffled sigh and cursed inwardly. Through half-lowered lids he watched her. The lamp’s dim light cast moving patterns across her delicate, downcast features. He berated himself. His guilt created a great, gaping chasm between them.
His gaze roamed over her, taking in each feature, each rounded curve. He permitted his eyes what he denied his hands and mouth. He watched her tuck her worn boots a bit further beneath her faded skirt.
Ian frowned and scrunched his brows. She was embarrassed by her clothing. Why she wore scarcely more than rags when Stapleton was flush with funds was an enigma to him. Where was the fine quality clothing like the yellow morning frock and silvery gown he’d seen her in before?
She took off her bonnet, placing it on the seat beside her. Wedging it into the corner, she folded the ribbons into a neat pile.
“You’ll need a new wardrobe, of course,” he blurted.
Vangie stopped fussing with the ribbons and stared at him. What was she thinking? He picked a piece of imaginary lint off his sleeve.
“I’ll consult with my housekeeper, Mrs. Tannsen, and have her take your measurements.”
He wasn’t about to ask Lucinda or Charlotte for any favors. Charlotte was proving to be more like her spiteful mother everyday.
“You can order whatever you like. Gowns, under things, bonnets, boots, slippers, fallalls, fripperies—” He waved his hand in a circle. “And whatever other whatnots you women find necessary.”
In his mind’s eye, a vision of Vangie in a revealing pink confection floated by. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Several more of those tempting, filmy nightgowns too.
The thought cheered him enormously. More than it ought. If he was so immersed in his shell of indifference, why did tantalizing visions of her in scanty nightclothes keep bumping around in his mind? He shifted on the seat once more.
Vangie sat mute as he hid in the dark corner.
He sent her a smile. “I can arrange to have the order sent straight away to London. New garments should begin to arrive within a fortnight.”
“I have clothing, Ian.”
“Not befitting your new station.”
She flinched and shrank against the squab, averting her eyes.
Curse his loose tongue.
Smoothing her skirt, she lifted a shoulder and said, “As you wish.”
Devil take it, he’d embarrassed her.
Had he not been in such a hurry to uncover the truth about Lucinda and Charlotte’s blatant deception, he would have delayed his departure to Northumberland and purchased a new wardrobe for Vangie in London. With her aunt’s and cousin’s assistance, she would no doubt have enjoyed the venture. Instead, he’d reminded her of her prior status and humiliated her.
So much for his vow not to hurt her again.
Vangie repositioned herself on the seat, and though almost undetectable, a wince pinched her face.
Other than offering Ian a half-smile, Vangie hadn’t bothered attempting to engage him when he’d first clamored into the carriage. Confounded lout.
He’d been mounted on Pericles when she’d exited the inn this morning, a smile of excitement and anticipation on her face. Last night’s well-laid plans evaporated with the dawn’s dew. She’d fought back tears as, Malcolm, the driver, assisted her into the coach.
One could only take so much rejection. The fragile shell of protection she’d carefully erected since this morning would crack and disintegrate if he rebuffed her again. W ith each saturated mile, her heart grew heavier, and her ire rose a bit higher.
How could she bear a lifetime of this?
There’s always the Roma—
Stealing a glance at her husband lounging across from her, Vangie was certain Ian was none too pleased having to share the coach with her hours before he typically did.
“Vangie, I meant no offense. I. . .” He stopped.
Her gaze met his before skittering away.
“Do you have any personal belongings you’d like to retrieve in Brunswick, before we continue on to Somersfield?”
Startled, Vangie lifted her gaze to his. Nodding her head she said, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I do have a few things I’d like to collect.”
“No trouble at all. We’ll stop on the morrow as we pass through.” He bestowed a warm smile on her.
Taken aback by his kindness, she searched his face for a long moment. “Thank. . .”
Her thank you was cut off as the coach lurched and bumped to a stop, practically tossing her onto the floor. Only clutching at the seat prevented her from plummeting onto Ian’s booted feet. Her reticule and hat weren’t as fortunate. She bent over to recover them. Whatever caused them to stop so abruptly?
Shouts echoed outside.
Worried, she raised her eyes to Ian, then inhaled sharply. He’d pulled a mahogany gun case from a compartment beneath his seat. Removing one of the flintlock officer’s pistols from its royal blue velvet bed, he began loading it with practiced efficiency.
“Ian?” Vangie was pleased she sounded poised. She was far from it. Her pulse beat an uneven staccato, and her breath refused to leave her lungs in a normal fashion.
He smiled reassuringly, before returning his attention to loading the other pistol. “Most likely nothing to be concerned about. I’m only being cautious.”
More shouting, then the unmistakable rocking of the carriage as a driver climbed down, caused her to doubt him. Her stomach caught and quivered. Stay calm, she told herself. Carriage drivers disembark for any number of reasons.
Ian raised a finger to his lips and motioned for Vangie to stay still, mouthing, “Don’t move.”
He quickly extinguished the lamp. From the edge of one of the carriage windows, he peered outside.
Was he serious? Vangie had no intention of sitting demurely by while God only knows what was occurring outdoors. She bent forward to take a look herself.
The murky twilight hindered visibility. All she could see were indiscriminate shapes and shadows. It was like peering into a deep, dark pond. One knew something was there beneath the surface, moving about, but one had no idea what it was—or whether it was dangerous or not.
Ian opened the door, scarcely wide enough to squeeze through. Heavens, he wasn’t going out there? She swallowed the cry rising to her lips.
Slipping through the opening with the pistols, he w
hispered, “Stay here.”
The door closed with a soft click.
Filled with trepidation, she scooted to the edge of the seat. Balancing awkwardly, her backside hanging halfway off, she poked her nose around the sash and watched him sneak around the rear of the coach on silent panther feet.
A shot echoed, quickly followed by a profusion of cursing. Vangie’s ears burned with heat.
Dear God, please keep Ian safe.
An eerie silence descended. She strained her ears, clenching and unclenching her hands. Her uneven breathing was the only sound she heard.
She jumped when another gun’s report disturbed the dusk’s tranquility. Her thoughts ricocheted round in her head. Whatever was happening? Where was Ian? Was he injured? Where were the drivers? Who was swearing such foul oaths? How many highwaymen were there?
Then ludicrously—has the rain stopped?
She stuffed her gloved fist in her mouth, muffling the hysterical giggle gurgling forth.
Chin up, old girl. Gypsy blood. Sterner stuff and all that.
Rot and rubbish. She was terrified.
The door was wrenched open with such force, it cracked against the carriage’s side. Hitching in a great gulp of air, Vangie jumped backward, hitting the squab with a solid clunk and banging her head on the carriage wall. The air whooshed from her lungs with the impact.
Clutching at the seat with one hand, she managed to right herself, while keeping her other hand hidden. Her head throbbed where it connected with the carriage. A surprisingly well-dressed man with a handkerchief tied over the lower portion of his face lurked in the opening.
He held a pistol in his hand. Waving the firearm menacingly he demanded, “Where’s the gent?”
Vangie’s gaze flicked beyond him. Nominal daylight was left. Where was Ian? Her gaze shifted to the highwayman, then sank to the gun in his hand.
She inched away from him. Lifting her chin like the aristocratic dames she’d seen in London, she answered icily. “You, sir, are mistaken. As you can see,” she angled her head haughtily, “I am alone.”
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