Nearly a Lady

by Alissa Johnson

  “I apologize,” she mumbled. “That was uncalled for. I don’t know why I said it.”

  “Aside from the fact it is true,” he replied with more kindness than she felt she deserved, “you said it because you are more tired than you are willing to admit.”

  She couldn’t seem to lift her gaze above her empty bowl. “That is not an excuse—”

  “And,” he cut in, “you are taking this more to heart than you should for the same reason. Winnefred, look at me.” He waited for her to comply. “You are a breath away from falling into your soup bowl. Go upstairs; go to bed. Things will look different in the morning.”

  Under other circumstances, she might have taken some offense at the insinuation she had difficulty seeing things as they really were. In fact, she wanted to take offense, which only went to prove his point.

  She was exhausted. Her body felt leaded and her thoughts raced without getting anywhere. She knew she was angry still, but she couldn’t decide if it was with him for thinking she ought to be a lady or with herself for not meeting his expectations. Probably, it was a bit of both, which made very little sense.

  “Winnefred,” Gideon said again. “Go to bed.”

  Giving up, she nodded and rose from the table to seek out her bed.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Winnefred stood at the front of the inn and watched as Gideon oversaw the harnessing of the horses to the carriage. She took a deep breath of the cool morning air and smiled. She felt herself again . . . Only better. Remarkably better. In fact, she felt very nearly exuberant.

  It was the oddest thing. She’d gone to sleep worrying over her disagreement with Gideon and had woken in such a fine mood, she’d had no trouble at all addressing her troubles as she so often did . . . by pushing them away.

  Gideon hadn’t been angry when she had left. She wasn’t angry now. And the rest could be worked through in time.

  It all seemed so simple. Which, quite frankly, seemed a little strange.

  How was it her body could still be battling a lingering weakness while her spirits practically soared? She contemplated this as Gideon walked across the yard to meet her. Then she contemplated how much she enjoyed watching Gideon walk across a yard to meet her.

  He ought to seem ungainly, she mused, or less virile somehow because of his injury. But he didn’t. He moved with an unexpected grace, and the unmistakable command of a man confident in his physical prowess. She watched the sculpted muscles of his thighs bulge beneath the snug fabric of his trousers, then let her eyes wander up to the broad expanse of his chest and the quick bunch and release of his powerful shoulders when he leaned on his cane.

  Oh, yes, everything about the man spoke of an uncommon physical strength. And everything about that had an uncommon effect on her.

  “Feeling better this morning?” Gideon inquired when he reached her.

  “Very much, thank you.” Amused by the tenor of her thoughts—less so by the heat in her cheeks—she caught her hands behind her back and rocked on her toes. “You were right, you know. Things do look different in the morning. Dramatically so. I feel euphoric. It’s the most bizarre thing.”

  He tilted his head at her. “You’ve not been ill before, have you?”

  “I had a head cold once and the mild illness on the way to Scotland. Why?” She stopped rocking, a grim thought occurring to her. “Is euphoria a symptom of something more serious—?”

  “No,” he replied on a laugh. “Just a benefit of recovery.”

  “Oh.” How very nice. “Does it last long?”

  He looked at the carriage, then looked at her. “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll take pleasure in it while I can, then,” she decided. “Are we ready to leave?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “I’ll fetch Lilly.”

  An hour later, Winnefred noted with some disappointment that Gideon was also right about the life span of her euphoria. With every sway of the carriage a little more of her good mood slipped away.

  She rode atop again, and though she found the movements of the carriage unpleasant, she also found plenty to distract her from her discomfort, and she wondered why anyone would ever choose to ride inside. There was so much to see, and the narrow view of the countryside to be had through a carriage window and around an outrider could not compare to the grand vista offered by an elevated seat. Better yet, Gideon had chosen to keep her company again, and he entertained her with tales of his travels and his youth. All of which he admitted to embellishing generously for the sake of good drama. She was delighted he did. She was delighted with him. Never before had she met someone capable of making her laugh and dream, wonder and want in the space of an hour, and then make her laugh and dream, wonder and want all over again in the next.

  But what was most unfamiliar to her was the experience of being cared for by someone stronger than herself. With Lilly, there had always been companionship and cooperation. But with Gideon, she felt . . . protected. There was no other word for it, no other way to describe how it felt to be tucked up against his side, his large frame sheltering her smaller one. He steadied her with strong hands when the carriage rocked too hard, and the heat of his body permeated through her coat and gown, warming skin that wanted to chill.

  She had always considered herself a person of independence, capable of caring for herself. But she could admit that there was a comfort, even a sense of freedom, in knowing she could rely on Gideon for a time. It was nice to know that, if just for a little while, she didn’t have to be the strong one.

  But even the frequent stops they made, the distractions of beautiful scenery, and the comfort of Gideon’s company were not enough to hold off her illness indefinitely. By early afternoon, she was experiencing a persistent ache in her belly, and her limbs began to feel sore and heavy. She tried to stay awake, remembering what Gideon had said about the perils of keeping her eyes off the road for too long, but it was only a matter of time before her head drooped and she slipped into sleep.

  She woke on her own, slowly and with the unsettling notion that someone had stuffed a wool coat in her mouth during her nap. As she became more aware, she realized it would be more accurate to say that she had put her mouth on the coat.

  She was drooling on Gideon.

  Her head snapped up and off his shoulder fast enough to have her neck screaming in protest. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Oh, how mortifying.

  “Quite all right,” he assured her with a teasing smile. “You salivate charmingly.”

  She groaned and dragged the back of her hand across her chin. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “There was no reason for it. You’ve been asleep less than half an hour.”

  “My pride could give you a dozen reasons. All moot now,” she grumbled.

  “Exactly. So why worry yourself over it?”

  “Easy for you to say.” His dignity hadn’t dribbled slowly out of his mouth for the last few miles.

  “You’ll make light of men and sheep, but throw in a little spit, and you color right up. You’re a puzzle, Winnefred.”

  “I’m a terrific mess,” she muttered. Her clothes were wrinkled and twisted, her bonnet was askew, and loose strands of hair whipped into her eyes. A headache was beginning to press against the back of her forehead and nausea continued its relentless assault against her system.

  Gideon slipped out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “We’ll be stopping for the day soon.”

  She wasn’t cold, but the coat smelled of him, and she found that comforting. She smiled in thanks. “We don’t need to stop yet. It’s barely midday.”

  “It’s nearing two.” He pointed to a thick gray wall of clouds she hadn’t noticed in the distance. “And we’ve heavy rain coming.”

  Not just rain, Winnefred thought, but a storm. The soft rumble of thunder could be heard, and the heavy sheets of rain extending from the clouds looked as if they could wash the road and everyone on it away in a matter of min
utes.

  She turned to Peter. “How far are we from shelter?”

  “Ten miles back or nine miles forward, give or take.”

  She looked again at the brewing storm. “We’ll not outrun it.”

  “No, we won’t,” Gideon agreed. “You’ll need to get inside the carriage soon.”

  “No.” She reached up and tied the ribbons of her bonnet more tightly. “Absolutely not.”

  “You’ll be soaked.”

  She considered the alternative. “Then I’ll be soaked.”

  “Winnefred—”

  “I can’t, Gideon. Not for nine miles. I just can’t.”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but in the end, he simply nodded and tucked his coat more securely around her shoulders.

  “You need this back,” she said.

  “I don’t. And you’ll keep it on, or you’ll ride out the storm in the carriage.”

  She kept it on.

  The rain began slowly, a mist of water brought in on the wind. It picked up, just as the wind did, and within twenty minutes, Gideon’s prediction came true. She was soaked to the bone. The rain and surrounding air was warm, but the water drove against them in hard sheets. She kept her chin down and her eyes closed and didn’t look up again until she heard a soft curse from Gideon and felt the carriage begin to slow.

  “What is it?”

  If anyone answered her, she didn’t hear it over the storm, and it hardly mattered. She could see the trouble for herself. A large stream cut across the road. It ran fast, wide, and undoubtedly deep. And the wooden bridge spanning it had been built too low to accommodate the sudden influx of water from heavy rainfall. The rushing water buffeted against the side of the bridge, periodically lapping up and over the boards. Winnefred imagined that if it hadn’t been for the howl of the wind and rain, one could hear the creaking and groaning of the wood. If the rain continued with such intensity, it would only be a matter of time before the bridge gave out.

  The moment the carriage stopped, Gideon and Peter hopped down. Winnefred followed them, a little surprised Gideon neither insisted she stay nor assisted her down. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was completely unaware of her presence. He walked toward the stream without looking at her. And when the outriders moved to follow, Gideon simply stopped them with a distracted wave of the hand.

  He stepped onto the bridge and looked down as another wave of water splashed over and onto his boots. It didn’t quite pass his ankles. He didn’t stand there long but backed off the bridge and rejoined her and Peter on the road. Winnefred waited for him to say something, but he simply turned around and stared at the water.

  Peter lifted his voice over the storm. “Sound as rock, that bridge!”

  Winnefred nodded and looked to Gideon. “Shall we cross?”

  When he said nothing, simply stared at the bridge, she assumed he hadn’t heard her over the wind and rain.

  “Gideon, do we cross?!” she yelled louder, but still he didn’t answer. He gave no indication he’d even heard her. A sliver of unease wound under her skin. “Gideon?”

  The unease turned to fear when he remained still and silent. Swallowing it down, she turned and spoke to Peter. “Go wait by the carriage. Tell Miss Ilestone to stay inside. Lord Gideon and I will return shortly.”

  Peter glanced uncertainly at Gideon but ultimately obeyed. When he was out of earshot, Winnefred tried to maneuver herself into Gideon’s line of sight, but he simply peered over her head at the bridge. He was too pale, she thought. His breathing was too heavy. Water ran down his brow and cheeks in rivulets, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  She took hold of his shoulders instead. “Gideon, what is it? . . . Gideon!”

  He didn’t look at her, but he spoke, finally, in a voice so soft she had trouble hearing him over the storm. “A minute. It just needs to stop for one bloody minute so I can think.”

  “What needs to stop?” The storm? The rushing water? He wasn’t making any sense. It was as if he was trapped somewhere else, fighting a battle she couldn’t see. But she knew torment when she saw it, and she recognized the pain in his eyes as the very same she’d seen when he’d woken from his nightmare.

  “You can have all the time you want,” she tried, her heart breaking for him, “just look at me.”

  It was as if she wasn’t even there. She stepped back and brushed the rain from her face. Pleading with him wasn’t working. Yelling at him wasn’t working. She had to think of something else. She couldn’t stand to see him so lost.

  She looked at the bridge, at Gideon, and made her decision. She spun on her heel and marched toward the bridge.

  Gideon was on her before she put a single foot on the wood. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her back from the water before spinning her around in his arms.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  His arms felt like bands of iron, and his features were hard as stone. He was furious. She hadn’t known he was even capable of such anger. And all she could think was, Thank heavens. Oh, thank heavens.

  She tipped her chin up and hoped the tactic she was taking was the right one. “Testing the bridge for myself. Someone needs to decide what’s to be done.”

  “I will decide what’s to be done!”

  She reached up, gripped his face with both hands, and forced him to keep looking at her, and only her. “Then decide, Gideon. Do we cross, or do we not?”

  He swallowed hard, but his eyes stayed on hers. “No,” he said at last. “No, we do not.”

  “Excellent.”

  He nodded as if approving of his own decision, and as he did, the confusion and pain in his eyes began to fade. “The storm is moving quickly. We wait until it passes. The water will recede.” He nodded once more. “We wait.”

  “We wait.”

  Delighted, relieved to the point of giddiness, she gave in to temptation and pressed her lips to his. He tasted of the rain, with the faintest hint of the gin he’d nipped from the outrider. She had just enough time to decide she rather liked the taste, and to register the feel of his fingers brushing lightly across her cheek, and then he was pulling away . . . Slowly, this time, and without a single backward step.

  She could have kissed him again just for that.

  Gideon had other ideas. “Get in the carriage,” he said, his voice a little rough. “I’ll fetch you when it’s time to leave.”

  Chapter 20

  Winnefred had no more than returned Gideon’s coat and opened the carriage door before Lilly reached out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her inside. “What on earth is going on here?”

  “Good grief,” Winnefred gasped, pulling her arm free and taking a seat. “Give me a moment to right myself.”

  “You may right yourself as you explain.”

  Winnefred tried to take off her sopping bonnet, but the ribbons were tied into a hopeless knot. “There was a minor disagreement between Lord Gideon and myself. I thought it best to resolve the issue in private.”

  “Private? I could see you well enough from the window, Winnefred Blythe. There was nothing private about that kiss.”

  “Let it alone, Lilly.”

  “I’ll not. You are my—”

  “For now,” Winnefred tried. “For now, let it alone. Please.”

  Lilly pressed her lips together, tapped a finger against her knee—which was not quite so encouraging a sign as a tapping foot—then said, “No. Absolutely not.”

  Winnefred groaned. She should have known a spot of begging wouldn’t put Lilly off. “I love you, Lilly. I do. But I’ll not share a secret with you that is not my own.”

  Particularly when she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what that secret might be.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Lilly returned. “I am demanding you explain that kiss.”

  “It was just . . .” She gave up on the knot and forcefully pulled the ribbons over her chin. “It was only a peck.”

  “I’m not blind. I saw how
you were looking . . .” Lilly sighed and trailed off. It was some time before she spoke again, and when she did, her tone was sympathetic. “Are you in love with him, Freddie?”

  Winnefred frowned in thought. She’d not considered the notion before, and she found now that no matter from which direction she looked at the question, she couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Worse, she couldn’t work out how she even felt about the idea. She hadn’t any philosophical objections to falling in love, but she did have some reservations, not the least of which was the notion of falling in love with someone who might not love her back.

  She scooted forward in her seat, wrinkling her nose a little when her wet skirts bunched under her legs. “I don’t know. What does it feel like to be in love?”

  “It feels wonderful,” Lilly replied. “. . . Until it doesn’t.”

  “That’s not at all helpful.”

  “The experience of falling in love is different for everyone.” Lilly cocked her head. “How does he make you feel?”

  “I just told you. I think I might be in love.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, physically, do you mean? I find him quite attractive. Sometimes, when he looks at me a certain way—”

  “No, that is not what I . . .” Lilly cleared her throat and carefully smoothed her hands down her skirts. “Yes, there are certain . . . corporal . . . er . . . indicators that certainly . . . indicate . . . Oh, dear.”

  Winnefred shook her head. “I’ve no idea what—”

  Lilly closed her eyes briefly and raised her hand. “Let me try again,” she suggested. “Does having him about make you happy?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “And when he is not about, do you miss him?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “In a different way than you miss, let us say, Claire, or even myself?”

  “Yes.”

  Lilly nodded. “Then there is a chance you are in love with him.”

  “Just a chance?”

  “Only you can say for certain.”