He flicked over a ledger page. At some point, he’d taken pen and ink from another case. He held the ink bottle in one hand and pen in another as he made annotations to his reports. He was right-handed and looked like a prissy puss. A big man holding a little bottle.
“They give you an air of distinction,” she continued.
Mr. Lynsted frowned as if something on the ledger page puzzled him.
Grace wondered what he’d do if she tipped his hand holding the ink bottle toward his lap. It would be a shame to ruin such a handsome pair of breeches, but if he continued behaving this way, she might not have a choice.
With a loud sigh, she slipped her feet out of her kid leather slippers and tucked them under the hem of her dress on the seat, pushing his thigh with her knees…the closest she dared come to acting on her ink tipping impulse. Of course, one bump in the road and she would not be responsible for the damage…
But there were no bumps. The coach rode amazingly smoothly.
For a long moment she sat quietly and then started to hum a tune from her childhood. She hummed it louder and louder.
Mr. Lynsted studiously disregarded her.
“Are you angry with me?” Enough of the games. Where was the gentleman of the night before?
He didn’t answer.
So she leaned her knees against his thigh.
That gained his attention.
“What?” he said, scowling at her offending knees.
“You aren’t being companionable,” she complained.
“We aren’t companions. This is a business trip.” He tried to turn his attention back to his scribbles and numbers.
Grace swung her feet to the floor. “Scotland is a long ride,” she explained.
“Ummm-hmmm.”
“If we ride in silence, the whole trip will seem ten times longer.”
“It’s unfortunate you are too frugal to hire a maid, Miss MacEachin,” he said, not even deigning to look at her. “Then you would have someone to whom you may talk. However, I’m making this trip to set serious allegations to rest. I don’t have to entertain you.”
To whom you may talk. No one spoke with such stilted formality anymore. At least, no one reasonable. And if he thought that set-down would shut her up, he was wrong.
“We must talk,” she insisted, putting a lot more whine in her voice. “It isn’t nice to not talk. Nor have I ever been disregarded before.”
He looked at her then and smiled, the expression not nice. “More’s the pity.” He drawled the words out, making them last, before returning his attention to his ledger.
Grace’s fingers ached to grab him by the ear and give it a savage twist. That would wipe the smug smile off his face. “What is the matter with you?” she asked.
“The matter? Nothing.” He capped his ink, leaned over and put the bottle and his pen away in their proper little carrying case, and retrieved his satchel.
“You were much friendlier last night,” Grace continued. “In fact, I almost enjoyed your company.”
He pulled out a paper from his satchel and opened it, putting up a very effective barrier between them.
“I find you very rude, Mr. Lynsted,” she declared. “What? Do you believe I have not been so ill treated before? I have. Back when I was first being presented. My family background was such that I should have been invited to all the events. Because of my father being convicted of a crime, a crime he didn’t commit”—she had to be certain he remembered that—“the only invitations I received were for parties hosted by my relatives, who begrudged everything they did for me.”
He stayed behind his paper.
The disdain hurt. It always did.
Over the years she’d reacted to it by running, or proving herself to be exactly what supposedly respectable people thought of her. Defiance was also a good reaction.
But if she was ever going to reclaim her life, to be the person she’d once believed herself to be, she could not let him cow her.
She tapped her foot on the floorboard, beating out the passage of time. They traveled in silence with only the sound of the horses, the rattling of the traces, and the squeaking of hinges.
He pretended not to be aware of her. She knew he was. Last night, this man had come across as honest. Today, he was a pretender.
“Usually people turn the pages,” she observed, “when they read the paper.”
There was a beat of silence, and then he flipped the page over.
“What is it?” she wondered. “Have your father and uncle warned you away from me? Have they made you afraid of the ‘Jezebel’?” She sneered at herself, all too aware of what those paragons of virtue and vice might have told him. “I liked you better when you thought for yourself.”
The paper came down. His eyes were angry and she noted they weren’t brown as she’d first thought, but a green. A dark, mossy green. “I do think for myself.”
“And that is why you’ve had a change of attitude toward me between last night and today?” she challenged.
“It’s not because I was warned off of you, Miss MacEachin,” he assured her. “Quite the contrary, my uncle urged me to give you a poke.”
The word offended her. She leaned back into her corner. “How godly of him.”
He noticed her move away. “Don’t worry. Your virtue is safe with me. And what my uncle is really saying is that you aren’t the sort of woman a man asks to wear his marriage ring.” He raised his paper again.
Grace knew that. It had been made painfully clear several times in her life. She’d lived beyond the pale of respectability. At times rebelliously so.
What caught her off guard was that Mr. Lynsted’s saying it rankled.
He was her enemy. She should celebrate that he found her not to his exacting standards of a wife. After all, what did she care?
“I wouldn’t consider marrying you,” she informed him as if they’d been discussing the matter.
He concentrated on his paper.
“Not only is your family guilty of destroying mine,” she continued, “but I wouldn’t want someone with your priggish manner.”
She glanced over to him. Was it her imagination, or did his fingers tighten on the paper?
Grace waited a good long moment before repeating herself. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked the newspaper. She laced her fingers together, happily preparing to annoy the devil out of him. “I said you were priggish. Priggish, priggish, priggish.”
The newspaper came down.
“It is not priggish to have standards,” he informed her, the outrage light in his eyes definitely bringing out the green. “In fact, it is a necessity—but then, you wouldn’t understand because you don’t have any.”
“I do have a standard—truth,” she insisted haughtily. “It’s the only one that matters.”
That remark hit home. “I wouldn’t be making this blasted trip if I didn’t seek truth.” He started to bring his paper back up but Grace had enough.
She grabbed the top of the paper with her hand, bringing it down, crumpling it. She’d bored a hole into his arrogance and she wasn’t about to relent.
“So what are your standards for a wife?” Her action had moved her from her corner of the coach, bringing her closer to him.
“What do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m merely making conversation.”
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. She tamped down a smile of triumph.
“She won’t be an actress,” he muttered. “Or a Highlander.”
“Am I being insulted?” Grace wondered. “I ask a simple question and you slur me?”
“There is nothing simple about your questions, Miss MacEachin. You are baiting me, plain and simple. You enjoy mocking me. Now here is the truth, the woman who wears my marriage ring will be all a gentlewoman should be. She’ll be reserved, conservative, genteel, well-bred—”
“And boring,” Grace assured him.
“She won’t be boring.”
“She will,” Gr
ace pronounced with the voice of experience. “Because you can’t make a list and order a wife to fit your personal specifications before you meet her. Wives don’t come that way. They are people and people are always complex and challenging. Or is that something your uncle and father didn’t warn you about?”
The lines of his mouth flattened. “You go too far.”
For a moment, she feared she had. This was no blustering male or one who could easily be controlled. There was steel in this man. Courage. Resolve.
Qualities she admired.
And he was ignoring her for his own reasons…reasons she sensed he did not want her to know.
“Marriage is a partnership of lovers,” she said, holding his gaze. “And if there is one thing I’ve learned in my”—she paused, searching for the right word—“adventurous life, a mysterious element known as romance can never be valued too highly.”
“I’m romantic enough, Miss MacEachin,” he replied tightly.
And she had to let him know he was wrong.
“Truly?” she asked softly. “How romantic is it to order a woman as you would a steak pie? I want her genteel, I want her conservative, I want her plump but not too plump. Maybe plump here and slender there. And her hair must be yellow unless I’m in the mood for something red, or purple, or green—”
“Women don’t have green hair, or purple hair. And I didn’t talk about personal features but qualities of character. There is a difference.”
“So you would marry a woman with green hair if she was boring?” She had to say it. She couldn’t help herself and was delighted when his jaw muscle tightened.
“Boring was not on my list,” he informed her. “You added it.”
“Very well,” Grace said. “I will amend my statement. It’s not a concern if your wife has ten fingers and ten toes provided she goes to church every Sunday and prays at six on Tuesdays and never expresses an opinion other than the one you decide for her since intelligence wasn’t on your list—”
“Why are you doing this?” He threw his paper to the floor. “Why are you spouting such nonsense?”
“Nonsense? I’m not the one ordering up a wife, Mr. Lynsted,” she said.
“No, there is something else at work here. You are attacking me, but it isn’t just me, is it, Miss MacEachin? This is something that has been on that female mind of yours a long time. You don’t like men very much, do you? You think we are fools.”
She did, but had never had a man astute enough to notice or bold enough to call her on it.
Edging back to her side of the coach, she said, “I don’t like being categorized, Mr. Lynsted. I’m calling you on a hypocrisy. You aren’t alone in your lists. Every man has them. The image of what his dream wife will be. They all want virgins while they chase me relentlessly. And once they do marry, they take on mistresses whom they treat better than those perfect wives.”
“And you hate that, don’t you?” he said, leaning toward her, intimidating her with Truth. “You don’t like being left out, knowing you will never be the wife?”
“I prefer my own company.”
“Liar,” he accused softly.
In that moment, the coach rolled over a rock or deep rut in the road. The wheels bounced, throwing his weight toward her but he went farther than that. Abruptly, he threw himself on top of her, his arm reaching across as if to hold her down.
She’d not expected the move.
Her first response was panic, just as it had been years ago, only this time she was wiser. She reached under the seat, felt the knife sheath and whipped out her dirk. She pressed the razor-sharp edge against his throat.
Surprise crossed his face. He went still.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
His gaze held hers.
Neither moved, their bodies swaying together with the motion of the coach.
She swallowed. His weight was heavy on her body. “I’m not a plaything. I know men expect it, but I’m my own person now. I’m not that woman any longer. No matter what your uncle or anyone says. No one touches me.”
Understanding crossed his face, and something else—compassion?
It embarrassed her.
He pushed his arm forward. She braced herself. She’d cut him if he tried to hurt her. He had to know she would—
A blast of damp, frigid air enveloped them before he pulled his arm back and there followed the click of a door being shut into place.
“The door came open,” he said, the muscles of his throat moving against her knife. “I don’t know why. It’s a new coach. However, I didn’t want you to fall out.” Raising his hand to show he meant no tricks, he sat back up.
Grace didn’t move immediately. It took several moments for her heartbeat to return to normal, and she was all too conscious of the fact that she’d tipped her hand. She’d overreacted and exposed to him, her enemy, her innermost fear.
He was such a strong man. A big one. An intimidating one. Now he knew how to frighten her.
Instead of gloating, Mr. Lynsted picked up his crumpled paper. He sat back against the seat, raised the paper, and once again began to read.
She reached down to the floor. She found her sheath and slipped the knife back into it before sitting up. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing the pins that had loosened back in place.
They rode in silence for a moment and then Mr. Lynsted murmured, “One other item to my list—the woman I marry won’t pull a knife on me.”
“More’s the pity,” she replied, trying to ape his earlier disinterest, and failing.
She’d been exposed. Made vulnerable…and he knew it.
Chapter Seven
They stayed in their separate corners of the coach as best they could after that.
When Mr. Lynsted finished reading his paper, Grace worked up the courage to ask if she could read it. He handed it to her without a word before returning to his ledger sheets.
The weather took a turn for the worst. Gray storm clouds covered the sun, threatening rain at any moment.
They had driven long and hard with only one quick stop along the side of the road for a stretch of the legs. Grace was very relieved when at last the coach turned off the main road.
“We must have reached the inn Dawson knows,” Mr. Lynsted informed her, breaking their hours of silence. “He said it was suitable for the night.”
Grace nodded, still not ready to talk to him. He’d kept his distance but she’d discovered she was too aware of him for her comfort.
After several turns down one road and another, the coach finally came to a halt. Grace stifled a yawn and put on her hat before she pulled on her gloves.
Mr. Lynsted did not wait for the driver to open his door but opened it himself and climbed out. Grace slid across the seat, ready to exit but his body blocked her way. He leaned back in to say to her, “It’s crowded out. The yard is full of horses and vehicles. Wait in the coach while I send Herbert in to see if there are rooms available for us.”
Grace didn’t want to wait. She yearned for fresh air and yet with him blocking the door, what choice did she have?
She pulled back the curtain covering the window on her side of the coach that she’d closed to keep cold air out and was surprised to see exactly how busy the inn yard was. There were horses, sporty phaetons, and coaches everywhere, along with servants and gentlemen.
Leaning across the seat toward Mr. Lynsted, she asked, “What is going on here?”
He didn’t answer her directly but stopped a passing gentleman. Grace couldn’t hear what they were saying and had to wait until Mr. Lynsted informed her, “There was a boxing match about ten miles down the road. The winner is to fight Cribb. I suppose because this inn is near the post road, many thought they’d chance coming here for an early start home on the morrow.” He pulled his head out and she heard him ask a passing gentleman who had won the match.
The name Cribb didn’t mean a thing to her, but she was suddenly very weary and the walls of this coach were closing
in around her. She wanted her supper and her bed and found it very easy to target her irritation at Mr. Lynsted.
She slid across the seat to the door. Mr. Lynsted was still blocking it with his body. For a second she debated giving him a goose in the hip to see if he would move, and decided against it. She’d wandered a long way from her mother’s teachings on the manners and decorum of a young lady, but there were still some things she would not do.
So, she did what her mother would have advised her to do, she cleared her throat. Several times.
Mr. Lynsted either didn’t hear her or refused to take the hint. He stood right where he was, discussing the fight with strangers and asking for more details. Apparently, a Scot named McGowan had defeated the favorite. The men had much to say about this unexpected win and proceeded to give it the same detailed consideration and discussion that Wellington probably offered over Napoleon.
Grace was going to scream if she didn’t escape this coach in two more seconds. Convention be damned. She opened the door on her side of the coach and climbed out. Mr. Lynsted would be annoyed she’d disobeyed his order to stay where he wanted her, and the thought made her smile.
Since the door had opened on the road, she’d stayed well away from it. She was surprised how loose the catch was for a new vehicle and when she went to close it, she noticed it didn’t close well. Curious, she poked her finger around the catch mechanism and discovered the tiniest bit of wood prying it open. She didn’t know how it managed to lodge there but she flicked it out with her nail, and the door shut tightly.
She shook out her skirts and was reaching up to readjust her velvet cap when a high-perched phaeton almost skimmed too close to her. The ham-handed driver had been ogling her. He paid attention to his driving in the nick of time to move his wheels, overcompensated, and almost ran into an oncoming vehicle right in front of Mr. Lynsted’s coach.
A shouting match between the two drivers resulted.
Grace ducked around the back of her coach and hurried around to where Mr. Lynsted and Dawson had been listening to the details of the McGowan fight from two other men.
The Marriage Ring Page 7
