The coach went over a bump, and she felt Garrick's hand tighten on her own. She glanced at him in the fitful light of the coach lamp, but he seemed to be still asleep.
“And the spring...it woke...and the buds, they broke...and the clouds blew over the seas...”
The rain was beating on the windows, the wheels churning, but the sound of her voice was stronger. She felt Garrick's hand clench again in hers. She held it gently and he shifted, and then looked at her.
“You sing beautifully.”
She felt her face go red. She had no idea he'd been listening! She flushed. “Och, nonsense,” she said, swallowing hard.
Even in the dark, she tried, and failed, to hide the smile that curved her lips. He really thought that she sang well! Her heart felt as if it melted a little and even in the cold, dark space of the coach there was suddenly warmth. The carriage slewed sideways and the two of them were jostled together. Garrick grunted in pain and Ettie wrapped her arm around him, holding him against the seat.
She felt his hand twitch in hers, and the intimacy of their position struck her anew. Her face went red as she considered the fact that he was here, pressed against her, that muscled arm rubbing against her own. She felt her heart thump. It was dark in the coach and it was only the two of them, alone with the hissing of the rain.
Strange warmth filled her body and Ettie swallowed it hard, ignoring feelings she half-understood, which seemed to be taking possession of her loins, her chest, her heart. Beside her, Garrick grunted softly, shifting in the seat, and the sound only served to further ignite strange feelings within her.
At length, he shifted beside her on the seat, and his eyes held hers. The coach had slowed now, and in the fitful lamplight she could see, quite clearly, the depths of those dark eyes. The wariness that lurked there was plain to her, a hesitant questioning.
She leaned forward as he did. His hand found her neck and the back of her hair, stroking it gently. She closed her eyes as his touch ignited the feelings growing inside her, drawing them to a tickling, urgent fever-pitch.
She opened her eyes, unable to bear it a moment longer. Her eyes were gazing into those worried brown ones. He leaned forward again and she moved and their lips met.
The touch of his lips on hers was sweet and tender. He probed her mouth, his lips nipping hers, so sweetly, gently opening them so that his tongue could lick lightly along the inside of her upper lip. She tensed and gasped as his tongue probed slightly more, questing between her lips. It was such a delicious sensation that she could hardly breathe. Her mouth opened to admit his tongue.
He sighed and then, as the kiss drew on, leaned back, eyes closed. “I can't,” he whispered hoarsely. “Oughtn't...”
She leaned back, gasping herself. Her eyes held his. Her hand was still on his lap, fingers laced with his own. “Why...?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Not right,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not...fair.”
Ettie was about to protest when she recalled what he meant. She was, as far as he was concerned, not Ettie Lomond, maid. She was Marguerite, the mistress of Duncliffe, and her status was so far above his as to make kissing an offence. She was also supposed to be married.
“No,” she murmured, cheeks flushed red. “Not right.”
His eyes held hers, depths torturous. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. His hand squeezed hers once, briefly, and then moved away. “Sorry.”
She felt the embers of sweetness shift, replaced with the beginnings of anger. He was sorry? No! That was all wrong. He had absolutely no reason to be sorry. If he hadn't insisted on falling in love with a mirage, none of this would have happened.
“Sorry, indeed,” she said harshly. She knew she was unfairly angry, but, now that the fire had been ignited, there was nothing at all she could do to keep it at bay. She felt her cheeks heat with the rage and her hands clenched. She took her fingers from his, clasping them together angrily. “We're on the way to Lowkirk,” she added.
She felt him shift on the seat beside her, moving further down the wet, cold leather toward the opposite door. The coach lurched and she knew it would jar his ribs and, at that moment, was not sorry for the fact. Let him go and lurk there, if he must! It was no concern of hers.
Ettie sniffed. She knew the anger was all borne of hurt, but she could no more halt it than she could have put the rain outside back into the clouds.
The lantern swung, illuminating his face. He was chalk-white, his teeth at his lip. She felt her compassion return.
“It's no good you lurking there,” she said reasonably. “Let me move,” she added, and went to sit opposite him, where she could brace her knees on his and help him to sit up without falling over.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She reached for his hands, and this time the touch was practical and caring, not the gentle, melting tenderness of earlier.
“You got sorely banged up back there,” she said, indicating the way down to Queensferry. “But nothing's broken and we'll set ye tae rights soon enough,” she added, and then swallowed hard. “Set you to rights, I mean.”
What is he going to think when my country accent starts coming through? He must wonder what happened to me!
She flushed. The more she allowed him to persist in the belief she was Marguerite, the more harm she did her mistress' reputation. Nevertheless, what could she do? If she revealed the deception, she could cost the mistress her life! How did she know, after all, that they could trust this fellow?
She glanced at him, but he was hunched over, face drawn with pain. She reckoned he was far too delirious with the knock on the head and the ache in his ribs to remember much really, apart from the pain. He'd likely put this conversation in the carriage down to a fevered dream and leave it at that.
And then we can all go back to how we were before.
The thought made Ettie's heart ache. It should have been a good thought, a relief. Instead, it made her feel as if someone had stabbed her through the chest. She had held his hand, been close to him. Felt his touch. Kissed him.
I can't go back.
However, she had to.
Marguerite's life might depend on it.
The coach lurched sideways again and Ettie leaned forward grimly, holding Garrick in the seat. She knew that Lowkirk was a whole day's ride away and was starting to wonder if she had chosen sensibly. She cleared her throat to ask Garrick his opinion.
“Mr. Hale?” she called. “You think it's good to stop at Lowkirk?”
No reply. He was leaned back against the seat, the planes of his face restful. Ettie felt her heart thump and hastily reached forward, laying a hand on his chest. His breathing was slow and even, the pulse she felt below her fingers gently beating.
He's alive. Just resting.
She leaned forward then, hugging her knees. She was starting to shiver. The rain had soaked through her dress, and now that the immediate need for vigilance was over, she could feel it finally.
“Och, please,” she whispered, a general prayer. “Let us get safe to somewhere. I can't stay in here much longer.”
She felt her consciousness slip and now, here, in this space, it was safe to close her eyes and rest, and sleep...
“Whoa!” the coachman called, the sound just intruding on Ettie's consciousness. She stirred and woke, thoughts filtering through.
Light spilled in through the door, somewhat mitigating the icy blast that followed. She drew her knees up to her chest and shivered. Someone cried out.
“Och, coachman!”
It was a woman's voice, and, though it was loud, it was not shrill with anger, but with concern.
“Coachman,” she called again, more urgently. “You have tae let this lot down – they're soaked through.”
“Said they wanted to get tae Lowkirk,” the coachman called firmly back. “Paid two shillings.”
“Well, I don't care,” the woman's voice insisted. “They'll freeze in here afore they reach Lowkirk. I'm getting them out and to
the inn. Brogan?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Tell Farrell to lift out the lady and take her to the Treetops. It's a short walk from here.”
“Not...going,” Ettie murmured, even as warm, gentle hands reached for her wrists and the woman pulled her carefully toward the door. “Not...without him.”
“Och, of course, dear,” the woman said gently. “We'd not take you without your man. Farrell?”
“Yes, milady?”
“Let Brogan help the lass. You take the fellow. You're more used to carrying heavy loads.”
A grunt of a laugh followed. “I'll say so, milady.”
A man reached into the coach as Ettie was guided carefully out of it. She felt someone gently hold her shoulder, helping her to lean against a cloak that smelled of warm wool.
“Och, lass,” a friendly voice said. “Here we are. Easy, now. A few more steps will do it. Were ye caught in this terrible downpour, eh?” he asked.
“Y...yes,” Ettie whispered. Her teeth were chattering now, too strong to control. She bit her lip and held it in her teeth, and tried not to let her jaw click over-loudly.
“Och, lass,” the man said again. “Ye're soaked through. Here we are. We'll get the innkeeper's wife tae send ye up a bath. You likely need it.”
“No...money,” Ettie whispered.
“Och, we'll settle that in a moment,” the man said gently. “Mayhap your man has some, or we can settle it somehow with the innkeeper. Easy, now. Aye, Grace. If you can take her upstairs?” he said to someone else. Ettie looked up to see an older woman, dressed in gray, a scarf tied over her hair, reaching forward.
“Och, yes. Come lass. Why! Ye're soaked through. What a night to catch a chill...We'll put some mustard in the water, then. That'll see ye tae rights.”
Ettie was too weak to protest as the woman gently led her up the stairs to a chamber. She found herself seated before a fire, and could hear the woman talking to herself as she fussed about, closing curtains, stoking the fire, checking blankets on the bed.
“Och, lass. We'll get a bath up right away. You can have a good old soak. Just what you need.”
“No...money...” Ettie whispered.
“Och, don't fret, lass,” the innkeeper's wife said jovially. She squeezed Ettie's hand and Ettie shook her head, blinking wearily, trying to remain awake.
The woman was already out of the room by the time she'd set her thoughts in order. Several questions remained unanswered: Where was Garrick? Where were they? How were they to pay for the inn? And who were their benefactors?
Before she could call out to ask any of the questions, a knock sounded on the door.
“Och, here we are,” the innkeeper's wife, Grace, said, appearing again. “Here's yer man. Set him down there on the bed, mister,” she instructed Farrell briskly. “And then out with ye! You're bringing wet in all over my good flooring.”
Ettie heard the man, Farrell, grunt with laughter and then he was gone, shutting the door behind himself. That left Ettie alone in the room. With Garrick.
She turned around to look behind her. Garrick lay on the bed, deathly pale. He was twisted unnaturally, one shoulder much higher than it ought to be. She reached out and took his hand. He gasped.
“Och, man,” Ettie whispered. “We need tae get ye fixed up.”
She worked briskly, laying him out straight on the bed, taking off his shoes, reaching for a cloth spread over the back of the chair to dry the worst of the moisture from his hair, his face, his neck. She was about to undress him when she realized what she was doing. This was no wounded soldier, such as she had sometimes helped Mother McGinn heal. This was Garrick, a man whose very voice struck longing within her.
“We'll get ye by the fire,” she decided briskly. She reached for his hand and wrapped his right arm over her shoulder, the way she’d had to move him in the street, seeming lifetimes ago. Then she dragged him, none too carefully, to his feet. He winced in protest and she didn't heed him. She settled him on the chair before the fire.
At that moment, the door opened.
“Och, there ye are!” the innkeeper's wife said with a lively voice. “I got the tub. Now, let's get him intae the water. Looks like he needs a long soak. I can see he's injured, too.”
“Yes,” Ettie mumbled. She looked at the floor as the innkeeper's wife reached for the bucket, tipping it into the bath. She could almost feel the steam and the heat of the water from here, and longed to get into it. She knew that Garrick needed it more than she.
“I'm sending Brenna up with a pail,” the woman added, then bustled out again. A few minutes later her daughter – Ettie presumed she was – appeared with two more pails, bringing the bath to almost-full. She cheerily nodded to Ettie, closed the door and disappeared.
Leaving them alone.
“You need tae bathe,” Ettie whispered to Garrick. The cold was leaving her bones somewhat and she could think better than she could earlier.
She saw his expression change and knew he was just as worried about propriety as she was.
“I'll go over here,” she said quickly. “If ye think ye can undress alone..?”
“Um, yes,” he said. His voice sounded strangely strangled. Ettie wondered why.
He must think Lady Marguerite has lost her senses.
She felt the familiar anger at the deception rise in her. Nevertheless, she stood and went to the corner, turning her back as he undressed. She heard the thump as he dropped one boot, and then the other. She wished she could help him. She knew she couldn't. Even without the deception, it would be hopelessly improper were she actually to assist him.
She felt her cheeks flare as she realized that he was there, in the room, behind her, naked. She fought a strange, wicked impulse that made her long to turn. She had never seen a man naked – not besides the one or two wounded soldiers she had helped to mend – and even then she had seen little of them, besides a hairy torso here or there. She found herself awfully curious about what Garrick looked like under his clothes.
She heard cloth slither to the floor. The chair creaked. She knew he was walking to the bath. She heard a chair shift on the floor as he gripped it, trying to stay upright. Then there was no sound except the shift and drip of water.
He was in the bath.
Ettie stayed where she was, back turned, staring into the flames. She tried to smother the urge to turn around. At length though, she did.
Muscle. That was the first thing she noticed. The firelight played on pale skin, broad shoulders, muscled arms. She stared. His head leaned back against the side of the tub, straight nose directed up, toward the roof. His eyes were closed and she marveled at the beauty of his face, in peace. He had a thin mouth, high cheekbones and a squarish jaw. His nose was beautifully straight, his forehead proud. She felt her body respond, heart thumping.
Those lips had kissed her own.
She could see little of him besides that rugged profile, the gleam of broad, bare shoulders and the shine of muscles on his arms. However, she still felt as if a furnace had been stoked inside her, spreading delicious heat up through her chest to her heart, suffusing every part of her and ending in her brain.
She heard the door creak open. His eyes flashed open and she swiveled around, alarmed. Had he seen her looking at him?
She heard him stand, then slip, and the water sluice toward the edge of the bath. Nobody entered.
“The door...blew open,” Garrick gasped. “Milady. Forgive me..?”
“No harm done,” Ettie whispered. Her cheeks flamed. Had he really seen her staring at him? He must think she was a shocking, wanton woman.
She heard the water settle in the bath again and knew he was out. She waited, still too nervous to turn around.
“Milady?” a voice called from the vicinity of the chair.
“Yes?”
“You can...turn round. I'm decent.”
Ettie took a breath and turned around. She saw he was sitting on the chair, a long piece of linen wrapped arou
nd his body, presumably left there by the innkeeper's wife for toweling themselves dry. She felt a smile lift the edge of her lip despite herself: there was something boyishly endearing about the way he sat there, hair gleaming wet, shoulders outlined with glow, a contrite expression on his face.
“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “You're decent.”
“You can wash, if you like?” Garrick said, hesitantly. “I'm sorry I went first. I won't look?”
Ettie swallowed hard, blushing. “I trust you,” she managed to say. He looked quite moved.
“Well, best get in before it's cold.”
Ettie nodded and, blushing fiercely, turned around to undress. She felt her soaking wet linen dress fall to the floor as she undid the buttons, then pulled her shift over her head. Her pantaloons came next, leaving her naked. When she turned around, he was looking at the wall.
I wonder if he looked...
Her body tingled with the delicious thought. She felt her lips lift in a smile and forced it down. What was she thinking?
She quickly lowered herself into the water.
Heat. Searing warmth. It chewed her toes, warmed her fingers and made her gasp. She had no idea how cold she had been before! She curled up in the hot water, drawing her knees to her chest, and lay back. The warmth seared into her slowly, starting with her chest and, lastly, warming her knees and hands.
She lay back, feeling her tight muscles unfurl. She had never actually had the luxury of a warm, full bath like this before – when she washed it was usually piecemeal in a basin – and the sensation of it driving the cold out of her calf-muscles, relaxing them, was almost too wonderful to describe. She gasped and leaned back, letting the warmth work magic.
When she next opened her eyes, she caught a movement and heard a creak. Her eyes flew at once to Garrick, but he was as he had been, turned stiffly to the wall. A slight pulse at his neck betrayed his recent motion and her whole body flushed warm.
Had he turned around?
The thought was so delicious, so wicked, that it made her smile.
Even as she did so, she realized how wicked she was being. She flushed with shame and stood, heading back quickly to the pile of her clothes. When she reached them, still dripping, she discovered another problem. She had nothing else to wear that wasn't soaking wet.
Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 14
