He’d woo her.
There’d been no courtship before the exchanging of the marriage oaths, but he vowed, he’d charm his bride. He’d dazzle her with everything a young damsel’s heart desired. She’d willingly give herself to him, and not only her luscious body, but her heart as well.
What a turnabout.
Hardly a week ago, he’d been cursing fate for her role in forcing him to marry Vangie. Today, he rejoiced at his providential good fortune. He caressed his wife with his gaze. Sensing his perusal, she gifted him with an exquisite smile. More optimistic than he’d been the whole of the previous week, he returned her smile, gently squeezing her hand. Perhaps he’d found favor with God at last.
Why the recent streak of misfortunes then? If only there wasn’t the persistent notion he had missed something obvious.
Chapter 17
Ian jolted awake. The carriage no longer rocked and swayed. Blast and damn, he’d fallen asleep. Bending forward, he peered through the window’s glass. They were parked alongside the entrance of The White Stag Inn. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was well into the late night hours; a dangerous time to be on the road.
He nudged Vangie. “Sweeting, wake up.”
Her head was nestled against his shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around her. A loaded pistol lay on the seat beside him.
The gut-wrenching terror tearing through him when he’d seen her cornered at gun-point whipped him anew. He knew the salacious intentions of the blackguard he’d consigned to the grave, courtesy of the lead ball Ian planted in him. He tightened his arms around her reflexively. God help anyone intending to harm this woman. His woman. His wife.
“Hmm?” Shivering, Vangie snuggled further into his side.
“We’ve arrived at the inn.” Ian’s gaze roamed her face.
He hoped she felt something too. Mayhap she didn’t understand the emotion. Perhaps it was what compelled her to take a life to protect him. The elusive emotion was foreign to him. He was just now beginning to recognize the sentiment. It left him desperate and vulnerable.
And, utterly terrified.
Were he and Vangie predestined for one another? Had God ordained from the beginning of time that they should find each other and through freewill, or otherwise, bound them together? A week ago he’d have scoffed at those notions, calling them balderdash and claptrap, but now. . .?
Vangie stirred sleepily, her eyes fluttering half-open. A shy smile teased her mouth.
Ian placed a feathery kiss on her tempting lips. Her smile widened. Elated, he settled her closer, never breaking contact with her lips. This was not a kiss of desire, but one of tender, awe-inspiring sentiment. A tantalizing kiss which offered his heart to her.
Somehow, he knew she perceived it. She reached between them laying her hand against his heart. Lifting his head, he kissed her on the forehead, before edging away.
“I’ll see to our rooms.” With his forefinger he flicked the curls tumbled to her shoulders.
“You might want to restore your appearance.”
He winked at her. “People might talk.”
A tiny squeak escaped Vangie. She immediately reached to straighten her hair. A roguish chuckle reverberated in Ian’s chest. He was teasing her. She grinned. Gone was the shell he’d erected around himself. Even in the dim carriage light, she could see an unmistakable glimmer in his eye. She drew in a deep breath. His doting attention excited her, causing her heart to beat a pace or two quicker.
“I’ll be but a few minutes,” he said.
Once he stepped from the carriage, she smoothed her skirt, replaced her hat and gloves, and waited for him to return. She deliberately avoided looking at the stains on the opposite seat.
A wave of nausea assailed her accompanied by a burst of pain behind her eyes. It spread, becoming an incessant throbbing spanning her forehead and temples. Searing agony radiated from her temple to her jaw.
Another? So soon? Would she never be free of them? Thirteen years she’d suffered these horrid megrims.
Better now than when she’d needed her wits about her to save Ian’s life.
She could yet see the face of the man she’d killed. A shudder rippled through her. Surely God would forgive her for taking his life. His wasn’t innocent blood, but that of a devious, black-hearted scoundrel. And she’d killed to protect her husband.
She drew in a shallow breath. She’d do it again, too.
The drumming in her head increased ferociously, pounding and thrumming like the leather-topped djembe’s played during Romani celebrations. She raised a shaky hand to cup her forehead. Dear God.
Through the buzzing in her ears, Vangie could hear Ian talking to Malcolm and Gifford, no doubt giving them instructions for the night and their departure on the morrow. The door opened, and he poked his head in, smiling. She detected a smidgeon of worry when his perceptive gaze lit on her face.
“Have you a headache?”
She didn’t dare nod her head. “Yes.”
“Come, I’ll help you alight.” Ian lifted her from the carriage, then set her on her wobbly legs.
She attempted a weak smile, grateful for the bracing arm he slipped around her waist.
“The White Stag Inn is a farmhouse turned public lodgings,” he said escorting her inside.
As long as there’s a bed.
Vangie was beyond caring. She needed to lie down. Through the fog numbing her senses, she saw the blazing fire burning in the common room.
Spots began floating before her eyes. She clutched at Ian’s arm. She’d never cast up her accounts before but feared she might this time.
A rotund woman, her wiry grey hair constrained in a semblance of a bun, with cheeks rosy red and a smile to match her substantial girth, trundled to them. She dropped an awkward curtsey. “Yer, room’s been made ready, my lord, and I’ll have yer food. . .”
She stopped mid-sentence. “Yer ladyship, ye be ready to keel over!”
Vangie swallowed, fuzziness encapsulating her. Lord, how she hated this.
“Ian?”
She heard the panic in her voice.
Without preamble, he scooped her into his arms. “Our room?”
Waddling to the stairs, the proprietress beckoned, “This way, yer lordship.”
Vangie daren’t close her eyes. Blackness would engulf her. She pressed her head against Ian’s chest. Squinting against the sparkling zigzag lines rotating before her eyes, she concentrated on the woman’s ample backside.
The innkeeper labored up the staircase. Opening a door at the end of the corridor, she shuffled to the bed, tossing back a quilt. “I’ll have Peg bring ye some water and yer supper.”
Her chuffy face crinkled with concern, the hostess asked, “Do her ladyship be needin’ anythin’?”
Ian laid Vangie on the bed. The room swirled, gyrating as the black, spiraling tunnel tried to suck her into obscurity. He touched her forehead, and traced a gentle path over her cheek. She looked into his calm, reassuring eyes.
He glanced at the innkeeper. “Have you any smelling salts?”
Vangie tried to focus on Ian’s voice. It seemed so far away.
The woman shook her head, her loose chins flapping with her vehemence. “Nay, sir. Not much call for salts.”
It’s too late—
Vangie awoke, snuggled beneath layers of blankets, more refreshed than she’d felt in weeks. She sighed contentedly, burying her face in the pillow in an attempt to avoid a persistent ray of sun angling across her face. It took a few moments for her to realize she wasn’t alone in the bed.
“Good morning, my lady,” Ian purred close to her ear.
She cracked open her eyes. He lay in his pantaloons and shirt atop the bedding, his dark head but inches from hers. Her voice, a mere breath of a sound, she replied softly, “Good morning.”
He bent and kissed her lightly. His gaze held hers. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. He said not a word, but something deep in his eyes spoke to her spirit. A fir
m knock rattled the chamber’s door shattering the moment.
Ian bounded from the bed. “Breakfast, at last. I’m ravenous.”
Vangie scooted to a sitting position. She was wearing her threadbare nightgown. How?
Ah, her ill-fated episode last evening. Faith, Ian must have undressed her. The blush sweeping across her face wasn’t entirely due to embarrassment. Her hand skimmed her thigh. Where was her dagger?
She quickly scanned the room.
He’d turned from the door and now watched her. “Your blade is on the nightstand. Do you always wear it strapped to your leg?”
He looked pointedly at her thigh.
Vangie nodded. “Almost always. Many Roma women do.”
Her gaze transferred to the pillow beside her. A couple of strands of wavy chestnut hair lay atop it. She smiled. Had he slept here, in this room with her all night? She followed him with her gaze as he carried a tray from the door to a small table. A jar filled with wildflowers stood atop it. It was a charming chamber. She’d taken scant notice of it last night.
Simple gingham curtains hung from the lone window, and braided rag rugs were placed on either side of the bed. The table and two chairs occupied one corner of the chamber, a washstand and mirror the other. The nightstand with its oil lamp was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Leaning closer, Vangie examined the hand-painted porcelain lampshade. An intricate bouquet of blue and white roses graced the surface. She curved her mouth in appreciation. Self-taught, she adored painting. She was quite good at it too, though the opportunities to indulge the pastime just for pleasure were few.
“Are you hungry?” Ian placed the tray on the table, then peeked under the serviette.
She nodded, even as she slipped from the bed, then approached the table. “Yes, I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I’m famished.”
As if to confirm her hunger, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“So I can hear,” he quipped.
She put her hand on her middle. “Goodness.”
Glancing at her rail, Vangie hesitated. She couldn’t eat with nothing on but her thin nightgown. Ian must have sensed her concern. He crossed to her open valise, and after digging around, removed her robe.
He settled the familiar folds over her shoulders, and Vangie smiled her gratitude.
“Thank you.”
Lifting a warm scone, she bit into it with relish. “Mmm, scrumptious.”
Closing her eyes, she took another blissful bite. Several crumbs from the pastry stuck to her mouth. She traced her lips with her tongue, licking them clean. Hearing a strange sound, she opened her eyes. Had Ian groaned?
Looking abashed, he patted his stomach and said, “My stomach’s protesting in hunger too.”
His was the oddest hunger pang she’d ever heard.
He took the chair opposite hers, then filled his plate.
“We’ll reach Somersfield this afternoon.”
Something in his tone gave her pause. Vangie searched his face. Wasn’t he pleased to be returning to Somersfield? Or perhaps explaining her presence to his family had caused the coolness in his voice.
Three hours later, Vangie’s childhood home, Biddlethorpe Hall, loomed before the coach. Its familiar golden-honey facade stirred complex emotions she’d rather leave unexamined. She pressed her lips into a thin line the moment the house appeared on the horizon.
The house was an oversized stone cottage, boasting five bedrooms. Four chimneys crowned with terra-cotta stacks stood at attention atop the roof. An uneven ivy hedge blanketed a stone fence framing the lawn. A curving flagstone footpath led the way through an open gate to an arched wooden entrance.
She’d loved the Caruthers’s ancestral home and grounds when her father was the baronet. Since his death, and Great Uncle Percival had assumed the baronetcy, the house held little happiness for her and had ceased to truly be her home. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, Vangie carefully schooled her features.
Dragging her gaze from Biddlethorpe, she briefly met Ian’s eyes, before shifting hers away. She clutched her hands in her lap, bunching her washed-out skirt.
“I’ve but a few items to collect, Ian. You needn’t trouble yourself with alighting. I’m sure my aunt and uncle won’t object if you remain in the coach.”
Please, don’t ask why.
She didn’t want him to know. And she wasn’t lying either. Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival were so miserly they begrudged their guests a spot of tea and a biscuit.
A frown puckered Ian’s brow, the movement emphasizing the sharp angles of his striking face. Did he see through her ruse? “You’re sure?”
Nodding her head Vangie reassured him, a mite more enthusiastically than necessary, “Oh, yes, I’m sure.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been certain he’d object to remaining in the carriage. It simply wasn’t done, even if one wasn’t expected. She was loath to do anything to disrupt the amiable disposition he’d adopted.
Studying him beneath her lashes, she concluded he was relaxed, not the least disgruntled by her ill-mannered suggestion. Noticing her perusal, Ian’s lips tilted slowly, sensually upward, a clear invitation in his eyes.
Flustered, Vangie blushed, swiftly averting her gaze. Blister it. He was the only person capable of causing her to blush with such regularity. Bother it all, the man unsettled her. A simple smile or an innocent look from him and she was all aquiver.
Silly goosecap.
He’d been all polite concern and solicitousness since last night. He’d even climbed into the coach-and-four directly behind her this morning. She couldn’t keep the look of astonishment off her face when he angled his tall form comfortably in the seat opposite her.
Malcolm had seen to the interior of the coach. No evidence of last night’s unfortunate event was detectable. The leather gleamed from a thorough cleansing and retained a vague, not disagreeable, oily-citrusy smell.
Grinning at her consternation, Ian had placed his forefinger under her chin, pushing her parted mouth closed. Her teeth settled together with a sharp click.
Chuckling he said, “Surprised you, did I?”
Vangie grinned in return, making no attempt to hide her happiness. He had joined her in the coach, and she was thrilled. It seems their misadventure with the highwaymen yestereve had wrought some benefits after all. Mayhap he harbored a morsel of tenderness for her.
Please, let it be so.
The carriage slowly rolled to a stop. Anxiety gripped her. She purposefully, relaxed her tense muscles and cast a glance at Ian. He smiled at her. Yes, last night and this morning did indeed give her cause to be optimistic. Now, to get through the ordeal of informing Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival of her marriage, gathering her sparse belongings, and leaving her childhood home. Forever.
She could do this. In and out in ten, mayhap fifteen minutes, at most. Knowing Ian would be waiting in the coach gave her courage.
He reached to open the trap door in the roof. “Gifford, please assist her ladyship from the coach.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll be but a few minutes, no more than fifteen at most.” She, laid her hand on his arm, searching his eyes. “You don’t mind waiting?”
Ian covered Vangie’s hand with his. She was reluctant to introduce him to her relatives. Why? Was she ashamed of him, their forced marriage, and the necessity of having to explain the hasty nuptials? Or was it something else?
He lowered his gaze to her hands. Earlier she had clasped them together so tightly he could see the white tips of her fingers. Though married less than a week, he knew her well enough to know she clenched her hands when distraught.
Curious, and not a little intrigued, Ian angled his head. Vangie was obviously apprehensive. Why? He looked past her, taking in the attractive house and grounds. Not ostentatiously affluent but still well-kept, and certainly not poverty stricken as he’d been led to believe.
“Your aunt and uncle won’t be offended if I
don’t come in?”
“Oh, no.” Vangie shook her head. “They aren’t expecting me home just yet, and. . .” Her shoulders slumped, and she looked uncomfortable. “Ian,” she paused, “I’m sorry, but they don’t like unexpected guests to call.”
“Won’t they be curious whose coach this is?”
“No. They’ll assume it belongs to Uncle Gideon. He has several.”
Something was amiss. Squeezing her hand, Ian shook his head. “Go along then. I don’t mind.”
She sent him a grateful smile, which only increased his determination to know exactly what was afoot.
Gifford opened the door, then helped Vangie down the small step. Ian watched her make her way to the cottage, stopping when a black-haired bantling called to her. A brilliant smile illuminated her face. She obviously knew the child and held him in great affection. She bent and embraced the boy, wrapping her arms around his thin body and hugging him tight to her.
She likes children.
The thought pleased Ian enormously. His pulse quickened when he considered precisely what was necessary to get her with child. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of erotic daydreaming to further explore his musings.
Vangie and the urchin spoke briefly. The child withdrew something from his vest pocket and passed it to her. With a wave, the boy trotted off, his bare feet kicking up small poufs of dust in his wake.
She watched him for a few moments. Was that sadness on her face? Were her shoulders drooping? Ian scooted forward, his gaze traveling between her and the child. It settled on the thing she held.
What was it? A note? From whom? A man?
Stop it, old chap.
Vangie flipped the item over, studying it for a moment, before opening her reticule, then tucking it inside. Cinching the strings tight, she looped the reticule around her wrist and turned in the direction of the cottage.
She squared her shoulders, as if preparing to do battle, and marched onward, through the open gate. Instead of entering through the front door, she skirted the house, disappearing around the corner. Why was she using the rear entrance?
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