by Sara Portman
Michael nodded slowly. “Your point is well taken, Albert. The innkeeper knows that we have taken two rooms. If we are discreet, no one need know which rooms we occupy.” Albert lifted one shoulder in unconvinced acceptance of Michael’s theory.
“And if I am wrong,” Michael felt the need to add, “It won’t matter. I won’t be forced into anything. There may be a hassle, but not a wedding, I promise you.” Michael ignored Albert’s continued skepticism in the face of this assertion and turned to rap gently on the door to Miss Crawley’s room. When he received no response, he knocked again. “Miss Crawley?”
The door opened—only a crack at first and then the rest of the way. Expectant green eyes stared back at him.
“The crowd below stairs is becoming unruly,” he said. “For your safety, I suggest we pass the night in the same room.”
For a moment, she only blinked up at him, then she exhaled her obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord.” She lowered her eyes again and bit her lip—drawing his eyes to her mouth.
He cursed inwardly. Perhaps Albert was right. She was a bit too dramatic and mysterious to even be believed. If he was being pulled into some manipulative game, he deserved his consequences, whatever they may be. “The privy is outside and it will be full dark soon. I suggest you make use of it now,” he said, more sharply than he had intended. “Albert will show you there.”
She looked over his shoulder at Albert, then gave a brief nod. Michael moved from the doorway and she stepped into the hall.
Albert bore a displeased look but said nothing to him as he handed Miss Crawley’s satchel and a bag of Michael’s things over to Michael. “This way, miss.” He paused only briefly then strode toward the stairwell, Miss Crawley hurrying to stay close behind.
Michael walked into the room and considered it. Gelert stood at attention near the fireplace, watching him. He tilted his head to one side.
Michael set the bags on the bed and scowled at him. “You should know your place as well.” Whether or not his decision was a wise one, he did not need his dog or his coachman questioning his reasons.
Damn. They had him questioning his reasons. Why did she have him so intrigued? Was he over-imagining her need for protection? Maybe his mind was as plagued as his leg by the days spent on the road. Just who the hell was she anyway? What the hell was she running away from?
He looked down at the bag of her things. It was worn and too small to contain enough for a journey of any significant duration. What did she have in there? What sort of person rifled through another’s things?
One who had a right to know just whom he was harboring.
He plunked the bag onto the bed and untied it, irked as he did so that she’d turned him into a snooping busybody.
* * * *
As the rain still fell, though not as violently as before, Juliana saw to her needs quickly. She also did not want to encounter others and the sooner she returned to the upstairs room, the lesser the chance of that occurring. She was grateful beyond measure that she would not pass the night alone.
Now that some moments had passed, however, the relief was mingled with apprehension of another sort. She had interacted more today with his lordship than she had with any man in her entire life, save her father. Now she would be spending the night in the same room. The thought made her anxious. Oddly, it also made her a little curious—excited even. No doubt her father would have much to say about the matter if he knew.
You’re just as wanton as your mother.
I always knew you would turn out like her.
Juliana took an odd, defiant pleasure in knowing that her father would object. A small smile curved on her lips.
“What has you traveling to London, miss?” The coachman’s question pulled her from her thoughts and cleared her smile. The question was given casually enough but Juliana noticed the way he slowed his pace, awaiting her answer, not willing to continue until he received it.
She had never interacted with anyone’s coachman before, other than seeing one now and again when the duchess visited Beadwell, but they had always seemed to mind their business. Apparently this coachman was not of that sort.
“I must see a solicitor about some arrangements that have been made for me,” she said, despite feeling quite certain his lordship’s coachman was even less entitled to explanations than his employer.
The man peered at her. “Seems to me,” the coachman said, “if someone went to the trouble of making arrangements for you, they might have included the arrangements for your travel.”
Though she did not feel it, Juliana chose confidence as a tactic. She lifted her chin and met the man’s gaze directly. “Yes, it would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” Then she turned and stalked toward the stairs, cheeks warming as she marched.
She knew he followed because she heard his footfalls on the stair treads behind her, but she did not look back. She proceeded directly to the room at the end of the hall in which a strange man and his monstrous dog awaited to spend the evening with her. She found the door unlocked and went inside, not bothering to bid the coachman good night.
She turned after closing the door behind her to find her companion for the evening standing over her satchel, unashamedly perusing its contents.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up, unabashed. He didn’t even pull his hand out of the bag. Surely any person with a conscience would have pulled his hand away. Even her father would have pulled his hand away if caught, and he had no conscience whatsoever.
“My coachman advises me not to trust you,” his lordship said matter-of-factly.
Of course he does. “I don’t care what your John Coachman thinks of me,” she said with more pique than she’d ever in her life delivered aloud.
His eyes narrowed and he stepped toward her, making her want to step away but she did not. “My ‘John Coachman’ has a name,” he bit out. “He is Albert Finn and he served his king and country under Wellington, so you would do well to speak of him respectfully.”
Juliana paused, startled by his vehemence. Didn’t all the aristocracy call their man John Coachman? Who was this man who demonstrated enough arrogance to unapologetically search her possessions, yet not only knew his coachman’s given name, but insisted she know it as well? “I meant no disrespect to Mr. Finn, my lord,” she said slowly, wondering where his mood may go next. “I only point out that he knows even less of me than you do sir, and you,”—she glanced pointedly at the satchel, “—are presently going through my things.”
He let out a dismissive huff of air. “If you mean to imply that I have gleaned a greater understanding of you by viewing the contents of your bag, you are mistaken. Your possessions are a collection of pointless objects. Let us evaluate.” He returned to the bag, lowered his head, and rummaged again. He produced one of her novels and held it aloft. “A book,” he announced.
“To pass the time on the journey,” she explained, though she imagined that should be quite clear to anyone.
He dropped the book onto the bed and pulled another object from the bag. “A rag.”
She stared at the bit of worn fabric clutched in his large hand and felt her cheeks warm. “My underclothes, my lord,” she said through gritted teeth. Did he think everyone could afford silks and weekly trips to the dressmakers? Every single garment she owned had been hard won through an unpleasant conversation with her father about the insufficiency of her previous garments for her changing body. That particular garment was at least eight years old.
He tossed her worn chemise onto the bed with the book and produced her hairbrush. “A hairbrush with a broken handle.”
“It’s perfectly functional.”
“And my personal favorite,” he continued, in a sing-song tone that bristled up her spine. “A wooden spoon.”
Her shoulders stiffened as he lifted the large wooden spoon, worn smooth from year
s of use, and she carefully schooled her expression. “For courage, my lord.”
He looked from her to the wooden utensil and the back again. “For courage?” he asked, his expression dubious.
“For courage,” she repeated.
He set the spoon down and came around the bed. “If this is a game, Miss Crawley, you will not win it.”
She looked at him in genuine confusion. “I don’t know your meaning, my lord.”
“As I suspect you well know, this night spent together in one room would see any gently-born lady well and truly compromised, regardless of the fact that I have no intention of touching you. If it is your fantasy that we shall be discovered and I shall be honor bound to rescue you from your pitiful life via a hasty marriage, you should redirect your efforts elsewhere. I am not lord of anything, my ‘honor’ is weak at best, and I will not marry you no matter who discovers us.”
She gaped at him. “That is preposterous. You think this is an elaborate ruse to see myself married to a stranger? You think I lay in wait all morning because I knew that you would stop in Peckingham?” The pitch of her voice rose as she spoke, but she could not stop it. Indignation pushed her forward. “Tell me this, my lord, once I convinced you to take me in, how do you think I brought about the storm that necessitated our stay here?” She spread her warms wide, lifted her palms upward and glared at him. “Do you think I recited some incantation to open the skies and call forth the rain?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he snapped, but he looked at her, dark eyes full of questions, and she wondered if he wasn’t considering it.
She lowered her arms. She softened her tone when she spoke again and despite her best efforts to control it, her voice wavered. “I am not a witch.” Her strength grew with the words despite their tentative delivery. She was not a witch. Nor was she mad or odd or unnatural, though her own father called her all of those things and more. This man would be her companion for only one more day. She would never see him again and his opinion of her mattered not at all.
She turned away and faced the fire, cursing inwardly at the knowledge that his questions stung all the same. Perhaps the sting would not smart so fiercely if she had not been so comforted by his gesture to allow her into his room. He’d sensed her fear—she’d been unable to hide it—and agreed to protect her. She had felt a wave of gratitude, but there had been more. She had not expected to feel so drawn to his protection, as though the closer she stayed to the fire, the better to keep out the cold.
Then he had doused the warm glow inside her with a frigid gale of accusations.
Marry him. Never. Marriage would not be his trap, but hers. Why would she trade one owner for another less than a day after she’d gained her freedom? She had not spent the past years plotting—pilfering pennies one at a time because her miserly father would notice more—only to become prisoner to another man.
“Very well then, Miss Crawley,” he said, scooping her possessions from the bed and placing them back into the bag. “Let us assume you have no agenda other than to arrive in London. You have not, however, been fully truthful.”
“Neither have you.”
He crossed his arms and mulishly waited for her to explain.
“You said you are not lord of anything.”
“I am not.”
“I have called you lord from the beginning and you’ve not corrected me.”
Just one of his massive shoulders shrugged, as though the observation was not significant enough to warrant the commitment of both. “That is your mistake, not my dishonesty.”
She advanced on him. “Why do you travel in a lord’s coach?”
“It is my father’s coach.”
“You are a younger son?”
“I am a bastard son.” He stared at her after this declaration and there was so much challenge in it, she could hear the taunt. If you thought I was a prize to be caught, you were wrong. She could feel how he dared her to judge him for it.
“If you travel in his coach, you are acknowledged if not legitimate.”
“I am acknowledged when it is convenient,” he said, tilting his head to one side, “just as you are confiding when it is convenient.”
Drat. They were back to her again. He was much better at this than she. “I can no longer call you my lord,” she pointed out. “What do I call you?”
He paused at this and she congratulated herself for at least causing some disruption of his relentless interrogation. He stared at her with an unsatisfied sort expression, as though he were making an assessment and displeased with the result. He sighed. “Very well. I am Michael Rosevear.”
She gave a slight nod. “Mr. Rosevear.”
His expression pinched a bit, as though he didn’t quite like her speaking his name. “You have your wish now, Miss Crawley. You have my name. And, I think more significantly, you have the protection of both myself and Gelert. I believe now would be an excellent opportunity to explain why such protection is required.”
She had made another irreversible blunder. She had been so transparent with her fear that she could no longer deny it. She struggled for an excuse. “I am merely frightened because I have led a sheltered life and I am a woman on my own. I am certain my fears are foolish.”
He shook his head. He didn’t believe her. She was not surprised. She had not felt particularly confident in her delivery.
“Who do you fear?” he asked.
“I don’t have reason to fear anyone,” she insisted.
He stepped forward. “Who would follow you?” His tone was louder, more insistent. “If there is no one, then I can only assume your fear was a ruse after all, designed to trap us together in the same chamber.”
Juliana’s face grew hot in anticipation of what she knew she must reveal. He would not be satisfied without an answer and she could not, in the moment, devise a credible lie. Telling him could be the end of it. Despite his suspicions of her, he’d offered his protection, but would that be withdrawn when he knew the truth? Would he, as most men would, believe she had no right to defy her father? He could march her down to the common room with a clear conscience and announce her identity in the hopes of being rid of her.
Worse still, he could see the weakness in her. She was a grown woman. Admitting to sneaking away from her father’s house was also an admission of all the years she had endured until now—all the years of meek acceptance.
She lowered her head, lacking the courage to watch Mr. Rosevear’s reaction, hating that he would inevitably be disgusted with her—whether for her past subservience or her present defiance, she would not know until she spoke.
“My father. I suspect my father is pursuing me.”
Chapter Five
Her father? “Because you have run away?” Michael asked.
She looked up then. “I have not run away, precisely.”
He cast her a dubious look.
“Running away is for children and criminals. I am neither. I am a woman of five and twenty and well capable of charting my own course.” She said it with such force, he wondered if she were attempting to convince only him, or both of them. “I am traveling to London because the rest of my life begins there. I will not return to my father’s house.”
Michael watched her and measured his response. She was defiant enough in the moment to finally deliver some truth, if only he provoked her enough. “My apologies,” he said. “You are traveling away. Either way, if you believe your father may want to find you and return you home, that does not seem particularly sinister to me.”
And that was the trick apparently, for the flash of spirit awoke fully, removing the last of the veil over her now expressive green eyes. Her spine straightened. Her fists clenched at her sides. “If he is pursuing me, it is not out of fatherly concern. It is only because he finds it unacceptable to have been abandoned by both his wife and his daughter.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Her mother had left before her. “He pursues you out of pride, then,” he offered.
Miss Crawley shrugged and turned to face the fire, her flash of spirit disappointingly short-lived. “That and now he has lost his housekeeper.”
“He cannot afford to keep servants?”
Her shoulders were wooden and her back straight. She delivered her response to the flames. “He chooses not to incur the expense.”
“That is not the same,” Michael said, his voice softening.
She turned, then, and faced him. “Yes. I know.”
Gone was the meek, subservient posture he had seen in the common room and just moments before when she’d first mentioned her father, but also missing was the burst of indignation. She stood, spine straight, with quiet dignity in the face of this admission.
He nodded. “An indication, I suppose, of why your mother chose to leave.”
“We had a housekeeper, then, before she left.”
Gelert chose that moment to brush his large body against Michael’s leg.
“Did you?” He asked, absently reaching down to stroke the dog.
She eyed Gelert cautiously as she answered. “Yes. Her name was Mrs. Grace Sanderson. My father released her on the twenty-second of September, eleven days after my mother’s departure.”
Michael’s hand stilled atop Gelert’s fur. She remembered the precise day. “Were you very close to your housekeeper, then?” he asked, his voice soft and cautious, not wanting to close the gate that he’d opened. He deserved answers, didn’t he? Deserved or not, he chose not to dwell on why he wanted them so badly.
“No.”
Had she averted her eyes or otherwise appeared discomfited, he would have interpreted the response as a protective one. But she met his gaze directly, brow furrowed in confusion at his question. She had him doubting his own common sense. He felt compelled to explain.
