by Julia London
“Aye?” said the man with his one-eyed curiosity, looking past Roan to where Miss Cabot stood, her hands clasped behind her back, nudging a chicken that was pecking around her foot.
“Good day,” Roan said. “Would you perhaps be willing to part with a pair of horses?”
The man looked to the pasture, where his five horses grazed. “Aye?” he said again, and Roan was momentarily confused—did the man misunderstand him, or did he mean for him to continue?
Roan opted for the latter. “And a pair of saddles if you can spare them. I’m to West Lee.”
“Wesleigh? Put yourself on the southbound coach,” the man said, waving in the direction of the village from where they’d just come, and turned as if that settled that.
“Not that West Lee. The north one.”
“What, you mean Weslay?” the man asked, squinting at him. “Then why’d you say Wesleigh?”
Roan took a deep breath. For the life of him, he heard no difference. “I am in need of two horses to carry me north, and you, sir, have seven in your pasture. Are any of them for sale?”
The man said nothing for a long moment as he considered Roan. “Fifteen pound.”
Roan blanched at that outrageous sum. “Fifteen pounds for two old horses?”
“No’ for two, no, sir,” the old man said patiently. “For one.”
“One! That horseflesh,” Roan said, gesturing blindly behind him, “is not worth a farthing!”
“Oh dear. They are certainly worth a farthing. Perhaps you mean a pound?”
It took a feat of monumental control that Roan could turn calmly toward Miss Cabot’s voice, take in the nettles that clung to the bottom of her gown and say, calmly and quietly, “I meant a farthing.” He turned back to the old man. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” And with that, he turned back to Miss Cabot, put his hands on her shoulders, twirled her about and marched her out of the old man’s hearing.
“What in blazes are you doing? At least allow me to negotiate with that old goat.”
“All right,” she said easily. “But a farthing is not very much at all. Even a very old horse would be worth more than that. Shall I show you?” she asked, reaching for her reticule.
He put his hand on hers to stop her. “I know how much a farthing is worth. Do you think I alighted on English soil and set off merrily on my way without thought to the currency or the customs?”
“Well...” She shrugged and averted her gaze as if she thought exactly that. “You did offer a farthing,” she murmured.
“I don’t have time to explain the nuances of negotiation to you now,” he said low. “I am going to step away and bargain for a horse. Not a word from you.”
He turned back and strode to the old man, who had settled against a fence railing, the dog at his feet. “I’ll give you ten pounds for two,” Roan said, and reached into his pocket to withdraw his purse.
“Fifteen pound for one,” the old man countered.
“That is preposterous,” Roan said. “Do you think I mean to breed them? Produce a herd of swaybacked, used-up post horses?”
The old man shrugged.
“Perhaps twenty pounds is more to his liking?”
God help him but Miss Cabot had appeared again, standing at his elbow, smiling prettily at the old man. “It seems rather fair to me,” she said. “Twenty pounds is really quite a lot of money. Our game warden, Mr. Cuniff, sold his cart for twenty pounds and do you know, he sent his youngest off to school? It’s a small fortune, isn’t it?”
Roan was set to send her back to her spot, perhaps even with a swift kick to her very shapely derriere, but the old man surprised him. He gave Miss Cabot a look that Roan was fairly certain was a smile. “Aye, quite a lot,” he agreed.
“It would be very kind of you to accept twenty pounds. My cousin,” she said, gesturing to Roan, “hasn’t a lot of money, really, and I, in particular, would be most grateful if you could see your way to agreeing to that price?” She smiled sweetly and looked remarkably angelic.
“Aye, for you, lass, I will agree to that price,” the old man said.
Roan gaped at Miss Cabot. Had she really agreed to twenty pounds, ten pounds more than he had intended to pay? For two horses? At least Roan hoped it was two—as the old man had been speaking of only one, he wasn’t certain. “For that price, we ought to have saddles, too,” he said. “I can ride without, but one cannot expect my cousin,” he said, looking askance at her, “to do the same.”
“For that price, you have one horse, no saddle,” the old man said.
“What?” Miss Cabot cried. “We agreed to two!”
“We agreed only to price, miss. Not the number of beasts. I said fifteen for one. You countered at twenty. That’s twenty pounds for one horse.”
She gasped and turned a wide-eyed gaze to Roan. “That’s not at all what I meant!” She suddenly swung back around to the old man. “See here, sir,” she said, pointing at him.
Roan managed to intercept her before she cost him any more money. “That’s not fair—”
“No, no, no, no,” he said quickly. “Don’t speak. Don’t say another word.”
“But he—”
“He has the horses,” Roan said, staring hard at her, hoping that she would read in his eyes how important it was that she not say anything else.
“But you can’t agree,” she whispered hotly.
“You already did,” he whispered, just as hotly. He glanced over his shoulder at O’Grady, who was watching with some amusement. Roan pushed her a few steps back. He stood so close to her now that he couldn’t help noticing how smooth her skin was, or how fair the hair at her temple, or the tiny lines of laughter around her eyes. And that mouth that he had so impetuously kissed looked fuller, more lush than it had under the sycamore tree.
Her dark golden brows suddenly snapped into a frown. “You’re cross and so am I,” she said, startling him back to the moment. “But I can’t allow you to purchase a horse for that,” she said, and lifted the reticule that dangled from her wrist.
“Put that away or I will take it. I do have my pride, Miss Cabot.”
“And I have mine!”
“Trust me, my pride is greater and stronger than yours ever dreamed of being. If you don’t put that silly bag away at once, I will not only sell you to Mr. O’Grady for a wife, I will also take a pig in exchange.”
She gasped with shock. And then her lovely face melted into a glare of vexation so intent, he could almost feel the heat of it. She whirled away from him and marched off in the direction of the pasture.
One horse, one bridle, one rope and no saddle later—eighteen pounds all told, as the man had agreed to negotiate the price a bit—Roan lashed their bags on the back of a worn-out horse. He cupped his hands for Miss Cabot, who stomped her foot, heel down, into his linked palms.
He launched her up.
She landed on the horse’s back with both legs on one side.
“Hike your hem,” he said, gesturing to her gown. “Swing a leg over.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“You can’t ride in that fashion,” he said impatiently. “There are two of us who must fit on this horse.”
She refused to look at him as she situated herself on the horse, clinging to its mane.
Roan groaned. What was it about young women that made them so damned recalcitrant? It was as if the entire feminine race was out to prove they were capable of all the things men did. He put his hand on her thigh to gain her attention, noticing how small it was, how firm. “The day is wasting,” he said.
“Then mount the horse, Mr. Matheson, and let us be on our way.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “But I will not tolerate your tears if you fall!” He threw himself up on his horse in one leap. The old beast stepped twice to the
side, clearly unused to the weight on her back. Roan had to drape Miss Cabot’s legs over his right thigh and put his arms around her to reach the reins. The horse gave a flick of its neck, and Miss Cabot slid into him, her shoulder just beneath his chin.
“Of all the...” She suddenly began to squirm, somehow managing to hike her leg up onto the horse’s neck. She took several moments to situate herself, tugging at her hem, straightening her bonnet.
It was all too much, the feel of her body rubbing against him.
“You realize, don’t you, that if we meet anyone, I will throw myself off this horse?” she said tetchily.
“If you keep up this squirming, I may toss you off myself,” he bit out as he set the horse to a trot.
With a squeal of surprise, Miss Cabot bounced back, her bottom fitting far too snugly in between his legs.
This, Roan thought, had all the potential of being the most excruciatingly painful ride of his life. He had never in his life been turned so completely upside down by a woman. He never imagined that he could be compelled in any way to buy an old horse and ride with a beautiful woman in his lap. Frankly, it made Roan fear what else those pretty hazel eyes could compel him to do.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT SEEMED AS if they rode hours down that narrow country lane without seeing anyone. Occasionally, across a meadow, Prudence would catch sight of a curl of smoke rising from some distant chimney or see a flock of sheep dotting a hillside. But it seemed as if the west country had been abandoned.
The horse—an old draft mare, Mr. Matheson said—plodded along. Nothing Mr. Matheson tried would encourage the beast to go faster. “I can hardly bear to think what I paid for this...nag,” he said, the last word uttered with some difficulty as he tried his best to spur the horse on.
They stopped periodically to rest the horse. The late afternoon had turned quite warm; Prudence removed her bonnet and her spencer and tucked them into her valise along with her reticule.
Without her spencer, Prudence was even more keenly aware of Mr. Matheson at her back as they rode. Her skin grew damp from the heat between them. She could feel all the contours of his body, all the man bits, pressed against her hips. It was equally provocative and alarming. She knew it was wildly inappropriate to be seated against him as she was...but she liked it.
Prudence’s mind wandered to salacious vignettes, her imagination stretching to see him without his clothing. The thoughts made her moist in a way that felt a little dangerous given the circumstances, but again, Prudence wasn’t sure she cared. She’d never been so intimately close to a man and it seemed ridiculous to be concerned about propriety now, not after that kiss, not after sitting so close to him.
Not that Prudence was quite ready to toss aside all of her virtue.
Or so she told herself.
As her awareness of him only intensified, she became increasingly determined to draw attention to something else. Anything else.
She tried talking to him at first—How do you like New York? Is it very big? Was the voyage very rough? How many sailors do you suppose it takes to man one of those ships? But Mr. Matheson did not seem in a mood to talk, and soon he was responding to her many questions with monosyllabic grunts.
Prudence therefore resorted to humming. She was regarded as highly accomplished on the pianoforte, to which Prudence would modestly agree. Her singing, however, was not as pleasant. She began to hum to cover up the sound of her growling stomach and to chase away the shivers that ran up and down her spine every time a bobble in the horse’s step pressed her more firmly into Mr. Matheson. She began to sing when she noticed how her legs ached from sitting so awkwardly for so long a period of time, but to move them would push her body deeper into his.
She had just burst into a near operatic voice when Mr. Matheson suddenly put his arm around her middle and squeezed it. “Please, I am begging you...stop.”
“My singing?”
“Your singing, your talking,” he said pleadingly.
“I’m only trying to pass the time,” she said, a bit wounded he did not appreciate her efforts. “I should like to halt,” she said, feeling suddenly queasy.
“That’s what I said.”
“I mean the horse. I should like to get off.”
“Soon,” he assured her. “We can’t be far.”
“Now, Mr. Matheson!” she exclaimed, suddenly quite nauseated.
He reined the horse to a halt and lifted himself off its back. Prudence leaped before he could help her, but she hadn’t counted on her legs being as useless as they were. They collapsed beneath her and she stumbled onto all fours.
“Miss Cabot!” Mr. Matheson hauled her up to her feet. He pushed her hair and bonnet away from her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, batting his hands away. She put her hand to her belly.
“What is it?” he asked, his expression full of alarm. “Are you ill?”
“No!” She winced. “A bit.”
He cupped her face with his palm. “You don’t feel warm. Is it your head? Your belly?”
“I don’t know,” she said, pressing her hands to her abdomen.
“You need to eat something,” he said firmly. “Where is the food you had earlier?”
“In my bag.”
He left her and moved to the horse, unstrapping her bag. He unbuckled her valise and held it open to her; Prudence removed the cheesecloth from it and unwrapped it. They bent their heads over the cheesecloth at the same time and peered down at the meager portions that were left. There was a bit of cheese, two sweetmeats and the end of a stale loaf of bread. Prudence glanced up at him.
“Well,” Mr. Matheson said sheepishly. “It seems I ate more than I thought I had. Eat what is here. We’ll find a village soon and I’ll see to it you are well fed.”
“There is no next village,” she said morosely as she nibbled a sweetmeat. “We’ve ridden all day and we’ve seen nothing. We must be near Brasenton Park.”
“Near...?”
“The Earl of Cargyle’s estate,” she clarified. “It’s situated between Ashton Down and Himple. Mrs. Bulworth told me it is a vast and untamed estate and this looks vast and untamed to me.”
Mr. Matheson helped himself to a piece of cheese. “I came this way, remember? I would say we’re a half hour from the next settlement at most.”
“A half hour!” she exclaimed, wincing painfully. The thought of getting on that horse again was almost more than she could bear.
“Come,” he said, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Think of the bath you can order the innkeeper to draw for you.”
“A bath,” she said dreamily.
Mr. Matheson helped her up to the back of the horse, then walked beside the lumbering beast, his hand on the bridle to lead them down the road.
It turned out that he was almost right—within a quarter of an hour, as the sun began to slide from the sky, they came upon a tavern. “Aha, food ahoy,” he said, and gave Prudence a pat on her leg.
The tavern sat by itself on the road with no other structures around it. Prudence couldn’t imagine what sort of food it might have—the building looked rather dilapidated, what with its chipped masonry and sagging roof on the right side. There was a single window, which was cranked open.
As they neared the tavern, a man stumbled out of the small door and around the side of the building, disappearing up a well-worn path that led into the woods.
Prudence eyed the structure warily. She’d never thought of herself as particular, but the thought of eating anything that had been cooked in that tavern turned her stomach a bit. “I’m not hungry,” she said anxiously. “There’s no need to go in.”
“Don’t speak to anyone, do you hear?” Mr. Matheson asked, ignoring her. “If someone approaches you, take this h
orse and ride. You can ride, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course I can. But, really it’s not necessary—”
“No buts, Prudence. Just wait.”
He strode off. Prudence might have argued more firmly for him to continue on, but she’d been momentarily distracted by the way he’d said her given name. As if they were friends. And it sounded so pretty when he said it. Not stiff, as she’d always thought her name to sound on the tongues of Englishmen, as if the pru stuck in their throats. When Mr. Matheson said it, her name sounded sweet. Easy. Happy.
He disappeared inside, and she slid off the horse, taking care to land properly this time, and stood beside the old girl, stroking her neck and watching the door of the tavern. She could hear laughter within, the low voices of men, the shrill voice of a woman. Prudence stepped back into the shadows, her pulse quickening. She had a bad feeling about this place. What was taking him?
The door burst open and Mr. Matheson came striding outside, his pockets bulging, his expression dark.
“What’s the matter?” she cried.
He didn’t answer; he grabbed her by the waist without warning and practically tossed her onto the horse’s back, and in what seemed like almost the same movement, acrobatically put himself behind her. Wrapping one arm tightly around her waist and taking the reins in the other, he whipped the horse about and yelled, “Ha!” at it, sending it into a jarring gallop. Prudence shrieked with surprise and fright as the horse began to move much faster than it had previously allowed was even capable. He drew her hard against him as the horse ran with an uneven gate, bouncing them about like small children on its back.
The horse quickly slowed to ambling however, apparently preferring the slower pace, no matter how much Mr. Matheson begged and cajoled.
Prudence turned and glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see riders close on their heels. But there was no one. “What happened?” she asked. “Why are we fleeing?”
“I didn’t receive a very warm welcome,” he said. “I thought it best not to linger.” He reined the horse off the road, turning her down a path that ran alongside a flowing brook.
