by Julia London
She looked at the offering.
“You’ve half a forest pressed to your face,” he said matter-of-factly.
Maura took it, then groped about for his arm to pull herself up. She gave him a good once-over, astonished that he could look so relaxed in the same forest with cold settling in. She wiped the dirt from her mouth. “How it pleases me to find the journey has posed no hardship for you, Mr. Bain, and that you are verra much at your leisure.”
“I assure you, I am no’ at my leisure, but merely attempting to pass the time.” He deliberately turned a page.
Maura’s stomach suddenly growled.
“Awake and hungry, then, are you?”
“Aye, famished,” she said, and tossed the handkerchief onto his leg, annoyed that he should look so comfortable when she was freezing.
She looked around their little campsite. It must be quite late—the lad was asleep on the other side of the fire, his body turned toward the warmth of the flames. She could see the horses near the banks of the creek, blankets draped across their backs. “How will you keep the horses from wandering away, then?” she asked curiously.
“They’re hobbled.”
Maura peered at the horses, and could just make out the belt around their front legs.
Mr. Bain put aside his book and dragged a saddlebag onto his lap and began to rummage inside it. Maura glanced at the book, now lying between them. “‘An Enquiry Concerning the Principle of Morals,’” she read aloud. “How interesting. Perhaps your book will hold the answer as to the principle of morals in this particular situation, eh, Mr. Bain?”
He smiled wryly, and handed her a bundle wrapped in cheesecloth. “I’ve some dried beef and hard biscuits,” he said.
Maura gasped with delight—she’d not expected food. She eagerly took the bundle from him and put it in her lap, brushed the tresses of hair from her eyes that had come undone with all her rolling about on the ground and which were apparently hosting a fair amount of leaves. But she paid no heed to her hair—she untied the cheesecloth and surveyed the food. As she had not eaten properly in days, this was a feast. Her stomach growled again.
She picked up a hunk of bread and bit into it, eating heartily, without regard to manners or attempting to conceal the sounds of pleasure she was making.
As she gnawed at a strip of beef, Mr. Bain nudged her and held up a skin. Whatever was in it, she hardly cared—she took it from him with a small grunt of thanks and drank.
Mr. Bain gave a small chuckle.
Ale. Strong ale at that, but she managed to keep from coughing it up and sighed when the warmth of it slid through her veins. When she had drunk what she could, she gave him the skin and resumed her meal.
Mr. Bain watched her with equal parts awe and amusement. “Am I so amusing?” she asked as she licked her fingers. “You’d be famished, too, that you would, had you been in the company of Mr. David Rumpkin. I’ve been desperately hungry—I dared eat scarcely a thing in that house.”
“I donna blame you,” he agreed. “I’ve no’ seen a more despicable home.”
She swallowed a mouthful of bread, thinking about the nightmare of the last fortnight. It would ruin her meal to describe the filth of that house, but she said, “I donna exaggerate when I say it was wretched, Mr. Bain.” She glanced up, her gaze following a spark that flew up into the night sky. “It’s much better here, really,” she said brightly, having just decided it. She felt more optimistic with a bit of food in her belly. “Aye, quite cold, that it is. But better.” She stuffed the rest of the beef in her mouth, gestured to the empty cheesecloth, and said, “Thank you for the food.”
“You are verra welcome, Miss Darby. I have no’ seen anyone enjoy hardtack and dried beef quite so much.”
All right, then, she’d eaten like a sow, but she didn’t care. She pondered her savior. Or was he her captor? A wee bit of both, she supposed. Either way, he was quite handsome. His hair was the color of autumn leaves, a mix of brown, dark red and gold. His eyes were pale green and when he looked at her, there was a certain sparkle in them.
Aye, he was a handsome man.
Yet she had the sense that there was something curiously distant about this handsome man. Perhaps it was because he knew everything about her, and she knew nothing but his name and that he liked to read books about philosophy, apparently. “Who are you?” she asked curiously.
He arched a brow. “I’ve told you.”
“Aye, you’ve said your name, but who are you really, Mr. Bain?”
He gave her a slight, enigmatic smile. “Does it matter?”
Ooh, a secret then. Maura twisted about so that she was facing him. “Aye, it matters who, exactly, is spiriting me away to marry a man I’ve never laid eyes on. You could be a thief or a marauder for all I know.”
“A marauder?”
“A highwayman?”
“That is no’ an improvement.”
“Well? What is your secret?”
“I’ve no secret.”
“But you are a friend of Mr. Calum Garbett, and yet, I’ve never heard your name.”
“Because I’ve only recently made Mr. Garbett’s acquaintance.”
“Really?” she asked skeptically.
He leaned forward, looked her directly in the eye and said, “Really.”
“Then how...?”
“I’m what one might call an agent, aye? Let’s agree that gentlemen often find themselves in uncomfortable situations, and I put them to rights.”
Maura had never heard of such a thing. What gentlemen? What uncomfortable situations? Were there so many of them that a man might make it his occupation? “I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Bain leaned back against the tree and stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankle. “It’s no’ as strange as it sounds.”
“Aye, it is,” she insisted.
He smiled, lazily, indulgently, and it made her feel...warm.
“You are a young woman, Miss Darby. You would have no call to know that there are times in a man’s life that he might need help disposing of a complication. I happen to be adept at that.”
He spoke with such confidence! She was rather envious of that sort of confidence, really, particularly as she never felt entirely confident of anything. Well, except that she was not marrying a stranger in Lumparty, Lunmarty, wherever it was he was taking her. She was entirely confident in that. “What do you mean?” She suddenly had the idea that he meant something quite nefarious. She leaned forward and whispered, “Are you an outlaw, Mr. Bain?”
He blinked. He glanced at the lad as if to assure himself he could not hear, then leaned forward, so that he was only a few inches from her, and whispered, “No.”
She swayed backward. “Then how is it you are adept at disposing of another man’s complications?”
He leaned against the tree again. “I just am. In this particular instance, I was once employed by the Duke of Montrose. He is an acquaintance of Mr. Garbett and put forth my name.”
Maura had seen the duke when she’d been called into Mr. Garbett’s drawing room to account for her alleged crime. She knew of Montrose—everyone knew of him. But there was something more that tickled at her memory. What was it that was said of him? She suddenly recalled and blurted, “That’s the man who murdered his wife!”
“He didna murder his wife, Miss Darby. It is true that the lady is no longer his wife, but she is verra much alive. When I said complications, I didna mean unlawful ones. I meant, simply...uncomfortable situations.”
“Is that what I am, then? An uncomfortable situation?”
“Aye.” He shrugged, as if that were plainly obvious. “If it eases you, you are the sort of uncomfortable situation that is easily put to rights.”
“If it eases me!” she exclaimed. “It offends me that my uncomfortable situation is so easily put to rights!
And never you mind, Mr. Bain—you may be adept with someone else, for I’ll put my own uncomfortable situation to rights, thank you.”
“Will you,” he said skeptically, and gave her a hint of a smile that made his eyes shine even more. “And how exactly will you do that, Miss Darby?”
“Never you mind,” she muttered. She had only a vague idea of how she’d go about it. It wasn’t as if she’d ever been allowed to chart her own path. Until a month or so ago, she had been quietly biding her time until Sorcha married. Once, she’d inquired of Mr. Garbett if he might find her a position in a good house as a governess, or even a tutor. But Mrs. Garbett had seen her request as yet another example of how Maura meant to take attention from Sorcha. On the contrary, Maura had meant it to be helpful. She’d assumed Mrs. Garbett would want her gone.
Everything in the Garbett house depended on Sorcha making a proper match. Nothing else mattered. Maura had assumed that when Sorcha married, then she might be allowed to pursue a marriage of her own, or a position in a house that at least gave her something to do. Some place she might go where she felt wanted. And safe. She hadn’t broached it again with Mr. Garbett, not with Sorcha’s trials in attracting a suitor. She’d told herself to be patient, to stay in the shadows, to give Sorcha all the room she needed to accomplish this family goal. And then Adam Cadell had come along, the bloody bounder.
Maura had never imagined anything as ignominious as this. It mad her feel stupid to have waited so patiently for her turn, to have trusted the people who had sworn to look after her, only to have her turn upended into something as wretched as the circumstance she found herself in today.
No. She would think of something.
She looked across the fire to the lad. “Is he your son, then?”
“No. He’s a hired hand.”
“Have you a son?” she asked.
“No.”
“A daughter?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
He shook his head.
Her back was beginning to ache, sitting like she was, and Maura looked at the tree that held him up. The trunk was big enough for the two of them, so she scooted herself up and sat next to him. “A wife, then?”
He chuckled softly. “No.”
“Have you anyone, Mr. Bain? Anyone at all to miss you?”
“I donna need anyone to miss me.”
“Anyone who claims no’ to need someone to miss them is a person that needs someone to miss them the most. I’ve no one to miss me, either, but I need someone to miss me.” She punctuated that with a sniff of superior understanding of the ways of the world. Didn’t need someone to miss him, indeed!
He gave her a discerning look, and Maura imagined how it must feel to be on the receiving end of his esteem. A tiny unwelcome shiver ran down her spine.
“You’re verra unusual for a well-bred miss. You’ve more than a wee bit of pluck. You remind me of another woman I know, a woman from the Highlands.”
“Then perhaps it is no’ so unusual at all to have a wee bit of pluck, if you are acquainted with two,” she pointed out, and turned her head.
She didn’t like the insinuation that there was something wrong with pluck. He would have it, too, had he no authority over his own life. Maura was desperate, she was hurt and above all, she was furious that she had no say in what was to become of her. None at all! Her father had once told her she could be quite stubborn when she was of a mind. Well, she was of a mind. She had already decided that she would retrieve her necklace if it were the last thing on this earth she would do. They could pry it out of her cold, dead hand if they liked, but they would not take it from her while she had a breath in her lung.
Maura suddenly realized what she had to do. There was nothing to be done for it. Turning the idea over in her mind made her quake with fear, but it didn’t matter—she would not have another opportunity and she would not let this one pass.
She suddenly stood, brushed out her gown and drew her cloak tightly about her. Mr. Bain did not object. “There is a place to wash where the river pools, just there,” he said, nodding with his chin. He picked up his book.
He thought her helpless. The Garbetts thought her helpless. Adam Cadell thought her helpless. She was naïve, that she was. But she was not helpless. Mr. Bain had no fear of her wandering about in the forest because he believed she was too frightened to stray far. Well, she was, but that wouldn’t stop her. Fury did funny things to a woman.
She walked on, past the horses, pausing to have a look at their hobbles. And then down to the pool to wash as best she could.
When she returned to the fireside, she noted that he had smoothed the pallet and had put more wood on the fire. He was reading again, engrossed in his principles of morals, she supposed. She took her place on the pallet. “I’m tired,” she announced.
“Good night, Miss Darby,” he said, as if he were sending a child off to bed. She lay down on the pallet, on her side, her back to him. She felt him get up and move away. A few minutes later he returned and stirred the fire, put more fuel to it. It wasn’t enough heat, unfortunately. She could hardly feel her fingers or toes—the cold was beginning to sink into her bones. Maura pulled her cloak more tightly about her, but she was shivering.
A moment later, Mr. Bain lay down right beside her. So close that her heart began to race. She didn’t trust him—she didn’t trust any man—and a very primal fear began to ratchet in her.
That fear soared when he said, “You’re shivering, lass. Come here, then.”
“No,” she said, but her tongue was thick, and her protest sounded garbled. She gasped with fright when he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. Maura cried out, expecting to be kissed, or a hand to grope her where it ought not to—but as she rolled, so did he, and she rolled into his back, her arm tight around his waist. “What are you doing, then?”
“Keeping you warm, aye? I’ll no’ have you freeze to death.”
She tried to free her arm, but he held tight.
“I’ll no’ accost you, Miss Darby, you have my word. I mean only to keep you warm. Go to sleep.”
“You’re mad if you think I can sleep like this!” she exclaimed.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
He could sleep like this, quite obviously, for his breathing began to slow until he seemed to be asleep.
It took some doing, but Maura began to relax. There was something to be said for the strength of a man’s body, all hard planes and scents of leather and cardamom. And warmth. For the love of Scotland, his body gave off the heat of a brazier. And, admittedly, she felt a wee bit safer beside him in the middle of this forest. So she snuggled closer to him, seeking more of his warmth. He grunted, laced his fingers with her hand and held her close.
She imagined that this was what marriage must feel like when there was a healthy esteem between two people. Sleeping beside a warm man each night. Feeling safe and warm. And wanted? She would like that, to feel safe and warm and wanted. Perhaps one day she would.
Maura closed her eyes. She was tempted to sleep, but she dared not. She had too much to think about, too much to plan, too much to accomplish that could not be done while he was awake and unbalancing her with his very calm and matter-of-fact demeanor.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS TRULY maddening that a man could be in complete control of his deeds, of his desires, of his thoughts, with no more than a wee bit of effort. But lie next to a beautiful woman and it took every ounce of willpower Nichol could summon not to touch her.
He was a lad again, fighting against his urge to taste the cake the cook had made. He was a greenhorn, desperate to catch the scent of a woman. He was a man who had denied himself the pleasure of flesh for an eternity.
None of these things were true, but nevertheless, he felt as if they were, and he thought he’d never sleep. He couldn’t quiet his mind, couldn’t stop feeling h
er presence at his back, all soft and warm and pressed against him, her breath tickling the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop imagining her without a stitch of clothing, of covering her beneath the blankets on this starry night, his body in hers, his eyes on her clear blue eyes.
But sleep he obviously did, for when the sun made its first appearance over the tops of the trees, he roused himself from the unsettled rest, and into his conscience crept the realization that his back was cold.
Nichol rolled over. She was not there, bundled in her cloak, her hair spilling about her. A jolt to his heart sat him up, and he looked about, trying to make sense of it.
She was gone. And she’d bloody well taken his plaid.
Nichol sprang to his feet with a roar, startling the lad, who sputtered awake. “Have you seen her?” Nichol demanded as Gavin tried to disentangle himself from his bedding.
“Who?” the lad asked stupidly.
Perhaps she’d gone to the creek. Nichol whirled about, but what he saw there made his heart sink even deeper. One of the horses was missing. Bloody hell, why had he not remained awake? Why had he been so damnably complacent? He let forth a string of swearing that made Gavin’s face turn four shades of red, but Nichol was livid. He didn’t like surprises—he was the one to control the circumstances. If there was one thing he detested, it was when a client did not behave properly. He was furious with himself for assuming that a young miss would not have the sense or the courage to make a muck of his carefully laid plans. And he was absolutely irate because it was entirely possible she’d gotten herself killed by now.
And maybe he was grudgingly impressed, too, because he’d never known a woman who would run off in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night. He doubted he would have had the guts to do it, without anything to protect himself, without provisions. Could she even ride? How did she put herself on a horse that was at least two hands taller than her? How far did the wench think she would get before she was lost, or fell or was set upon by thieves?
“Aaaiiieee,” he roared, and kicked a log with all his might.
