Guarding a Notorious Lady

by Olivia Parker

  Nicholas stepped away from her. “Mr. Peters. The one room will be fine. My wif—”

  “Sister,” Rosalind announced rather loudly. “Sister. I am his sister.” If he wanted to treat her coldly and pretend there was absolutely nothing going on between them, then she certainly wasn’t going to allow him to play into some sort of fantasy wherein they got to pretend to be man and wife.

  If he could be aloof and cool, then she would be an Ice Queen.

  Nicholas’s gray gaze froze on her for a long moment before turning back to Mr. Peters. “Aye. My sister and I will share a room.”

  “Splendid,” Mr. Peters beamed. “Shall I send up a tray of food?”

  Nicholas nodded, then tossed the man a coin.

  “I regret that I have no one to carry up your trunk, I could—”

  “That’s all right,” Rosalind assured the old man, who was now shuffling toward the narrow staircase, step by rickety step.

  She looked pointedly at Nicholas, gesturing to her trunk with an open palm. “Nicholas, my trunk.”

  A tight smile stretched across his mouth as he passed her by without picking it up. “Come now, sis. You remember my leg injury? I couldn’t possibly carry that up all those stairs.”

  Her lips hardened into a thin line. Exhaling on a huff, she grabbed her trunk with two hands and dragged it laboriously toward the steps, mumbling her displeasure along the way.

  Mr. Peters had a hard time with the stairs, ascending them at a turtle’s pace. Nicholas offered to assist the man, but the innkeeper politely refused.

  Thankful for the slow ascent, Rosalind found it easier to pull the trunk on the carpeted stairs. Reaching Nicholas, she pulled hard and the trunk slid up the next step rather quickly. The corner rammed into the back of Nicholas’s knee.

  “Ow!”

  Rosalind smiled.

  Mr. Peters looked over his shoulder. “Everything all right?”

  “Indeed,” Rosalind chirped. “It’s just his bad leg.” She gave a happy sigh. “Everything is perfect now.”

  He abandoned her.

  Well, perhaps she was being a touch melodramatic.

  After the “accidental” leg walloping on the stairs, Nicholas helped her carry her trunk the rest of the way to their room.

  And if the Scot had the power to make a room appear smaller just by his mere presence, he made this room look positively tiny.

  On the right, dominating the room, jutted the bed, a large and rustically designed four-poster, with a clean counterpane of ivory. A small dressing screen stood in the corner, closest to the door. In the opposite corner stood a small washstand and side table.

  On the other side of the monstrous bed, a small hearth crouched in the center of the far wall. Before it sat a tiny scarred wooden table and the room’s only chair—a rather nice armchair with salmon-colored cushions that had probably been dark pink when new.

  Rosalind reposed there now, plopping the last square of cheese in her mouth.

  Nicholas had been gone for two hours, at least. She didn’t know precisely, as there wasn’t a clock in the room.

  He’d claimed he would see that the horses were being properly cared for and expressed some interest in returning to the washed-out road to ascertain a way to drain it. Then he’d locked the door behind him and left.

  Would he return?

  Common sense told her that he would, but she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t return until the morning—having deemed a muddied road infinitely more exciting than spending the rest of his evening with her.

  No. She knew what he was doing. He was avoiding being alone with her in this room.

  Her eyes flicked over to the bed. Where would they both sleep?

  Just then, the lock on the door clicked and Nicholas swept inside the room, setting a small bundle on the side table near the door.

  Sparing her the briefest of glances, he shrugged out of his carrick coat and hung it on a peg on the wall near the door. His beaver hat joined it. Next were his riding gloves, which he took a ridiculously long time to pull off. He laid them on the side table next to the bundle.

  Rosalind stood, patting the wrinkles out of her dark blue frock. “Ah, good evening?”

  He grunted while pouring a splash of water in the basin.

  “Did it stop raining?” It was a stupid question. She could have just looked out the window for herself.

  He nodded and looked about the washstand. “Do you have soap in that trunk of yours?”

  “Yes,” she answered. Loping over to her trunk, she flipped it open, located the small, square wedge, and handed it to him. “I hope you don’t mind . . . it’s slightly floral. Jas—”

  “Jasmine and cream.”

  She blinked, astonished that he knew. “All right, then,” she murmured, taking a step back from him. “Do you like it?”

  “Too much.”

  “Ah,” she remarked, not quite sure how to respond. “Would you like me to get you some for your private use? I could order it for you.”

  “On you. I like it on you.”

  “Oh.”

  Dear me. He was certainly a man of few words this evening.

  Hands folding demurely in front of her, she watched him wash up. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to look. She supposed she could look out the single window next to the fireplace, but it only showed the side wall of the neighboring building—not terribly exciting.

  The bed. All she could think about was the bed and where they would sleep. Quite honestly, with Nicholas in the room, the bed seemed to come alive, demanding she take notice of it.

  She handed him a towel once he was done. After he finished drying himself, he took off his boots, set them near his coat, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Rosalind gulped. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to go to sleep.” In seconds, he stood before her, bare-chested, all that glorious, sun-kissed muscle bunching as he shook out his shirt, then hung it next to his coat.

  Her heart started to race at the sight of him.

  “Mr. Peters loaned me an extra blanket,” he said, pointing to the small bundle he had brought in the room. “And a shirt.” He unfolded it and shrugged it on. Bringing his arms together in order to button it, a ripping sound rent through the room.

  He looked over his shoulder and down his back.

  Rosalind gasped, a hand thrown to her throat. “Oh, Nicholas. I think the shirt was too small.”

  Pressing his lips together, he nodded.

  Unable to stop herself, she giggled. “No! No! Don’t take it off.”

  “I can’t button it.”

  “Yes, but it covers you mostly. And I think you’d get cold without a shirt.” And she wouldn’t be able to stop looking at him.

  He shrugged out of it anyway.

  Silence reigned for some time while she busied herself dragging his wet clothes over to the hearth, where she laid them on the table to dry by the fire.

  When she was done, Rosalind supposed she ought to ready herself for bed as well. After rifling through her trunk, she located her brush, prim nightdress, and a pair of thick stockings that she liked to wear when she was away from home.

  As Nicholas had nicely dumped his water in the bowl on the floor, Rosalind poured herself fresh water and began her nightly regimen. She thought perhaps she might ease the tension in the room by talking to him.

  But then again, it wasn’t an easy task when the other person wouldn’t look at you and only responded in grunts.

  “Did you eat?” she asked.

  “Yes. Downstairs.” He was sitting in the chair. “Did you?”

  “Yes. Thanks for ordering it for me.”

  He grunted.

  “The strawberry tarts were delicious. I ate all four.”

  “Good,” he said with some satisfaction. “I knew you would like them.”

  “How?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The tarts?” Gently, she patted her freshly washed face
with a small, clean towel. “Were you just guessing?”

  “Actually,” he said smoothly, “I remember an incident Gabriel had mentioned a while ago involving the last strawberry tart at a spring luncheon. Your birthday picnic, if I remember correctly.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes, I remember. Tristan challenged me to an arm wrestling match. The winner got the last tart. He won the match within seconds, of course, but I snatched the thing from his grasp before he could take a bite.”

  “Thief.”

  “Indeed. I ran all the way to my room and locked the door behind me. I was just about to take a bite, and then it dropped, fruit side down, on my dirty shoe.”

  His lips twitched with a suppressed smile.

  “I suppose you think I deserved such an outcome?”

  “No. I think your brother should have let you have it. It was your birthday, after all.”

  “Good,” she replied, folding the towel and placing it on the washstand. “We finally agree on something.”

  Finished, Rosalind approached the dressing screen, sudden trepidation taking hold. She hadn’t fretted over the potential problem of not having a maid with her until that moment. She assumed that his sister would have a maid who could assist her in dressing and undressing. But she hadn’t planned on spending the night at an inn.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. I can do this, she told herself.

  Flinging her nightgown over the screen, she removed her boots, and then her stockings, replacing them with the soft, wooly ones. With her chin hardened in determination, she reached behind her to begin unfastening the row of buttons marching down her back. Several minutes later she’d managed to get three or four done before her arms cramped from the awkward position and her elbow whacked into the screen.

  “Ouch!”

  A heavy, masculine sigh erupted from the other side. “What the devil are you doing, lass?”

  “Trying to remove my gown.”

  Silence.

  She tried once more, but her arm cramped again. “Oh, I surrender! I will simply wear the dratted thing to bed.”

  “Although I think it might kill me,” came his quiet, deep baritone from across the room, “do you want me to help you?”

  She thought about it for a moment. Somehow sleeping in yards of damp muslin was not appealing. “Yes, I require it.”

  “Come here, then,” he muttered in resignation.

  She walked around the screen to see Nicholas sitting in the chair, long legs spread out before him, white shirt open, revealing a beautiful expanse of his chest. His dark brown hair had curled slightly at the ends from the humidity. It simply was not fair that a man should look so devastatingly handsome with no effort.

  She swallowed, her heart beating a wild staccato with anticipation of his touch.

  She came to his chair and peered down. His eyes were shut and he lifted a hand, motioning her closer.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas! Just unbutton the back of my gown. And please hurry.”

  He grinned but didn’t open his eyes.

  She sat on the arm of the chair and he went to work on the buttons. Shivers danced all along her spine. “Now the corset.”

  He sighed, and it sounded quite like a moan of pain. Deftly untying her laces, he soon loosened the corset, and goose pimples fanned up her arms and down her chest, hardening the tips of her breasts as well.

  “Done?” he asked, voice almost pleading.

  “Yes, thank you,” she intoned.

  He nodded and she returned to the screen, where she finished undressing and donned her nightclothes. Brush in hand, she plopped down on the bed, surprised at how soft it was. She began the process of unpinning her long hair.

  She watched Nicholas while she worked, waiting for him to open his eyes. When the silence stretched, and his eyes remained closed, she allowed her gaze to rake his entire body freely.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want your blanket?”

  “I’m not cold right now.”

  She loved how the muscles of his abdomen twitched as he spoke. “Are you going to sleep in the chair?” she asked, brushing out her hair now.

  “Yes.” A short pause. “Rosalind?” Her name rumbled sleepily from his lips.

  She shivered. “Yes, Nicholas.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  She froze for a moment, her thumb smoothing over the soft bristles of the brush. She couldn’t possibly sleep. Not with him sprawled within reach. Did he want her to look at him? Was this some sort of test? Why couldn’t he just cover himself up with the blanket?

  She had the most scandalous urge just then. In her mind’s eye, she slid off the bed, stepped between his long legs.

  She cleared her throat in an effort to steer her thoughts into a different direction. “Why have you never married?” she asked. After a long silence, however, she regretted the intrusive query. “I’m sorry. I tend to pry on occasion.”

  He shifted more comfortably in the chair. Lifting his arms, he settled them behind his head like a makeshift pillow, which made him look even more enticing, if such a thing had been possible.

  “I have never had the inclination,” he finally answered.

  “Oh.” She suddenly felt happier for some reason. And a touch brazen. “Ah . . . should you have the inclination,” she began carefully, “what sort of woman would suit you?”

  He raised a brow but did not open his eyes. “What sort?”

  “You know,” she murmured, her tone casual, “looks, temperament, situation. I-I’m just curious, really.”

  “Looks. Hmm. Perhaps tall, blond.”

  Rosalind’s mouth twisted as she looked down at her rather petite legs. She sighed audibly, then began braiding her long, black hair with a pensive tilt to her head. “Is that so?” she murmured, her voice small.

  “And she needn’t be a lady of some social rank, either.”

  “No?” Good Lord, she wanted to cry.

  “In fact, a country miss might be just what I need.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, remembering his casual notice of the tall, willowy blond at Vauxhall. Apparently, Rosalind was in the mood for a bit more self-torture, for she couldn’t help but ask, “And what of her temperament?”

  “Now that’s the most important requirement of them all.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye. Above all else, she must be quiet. No chatty lassies for me. Especially in the evening . . . when I’m trying to sleep.”

  She had been dwelling so miserably on the words “tall” and “blond” that it took a moment to realize he was only teasing her. Or, at least she hoped he was. Good Lord, she hated this dreadful cloud of uncertainty she was plagued with.

  Silence reigned between them for several moments. Her hair now in one long plait, she sat back, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Nicholas?”

  “Yes, Rosalind?”

  “Why will you not look at me?” she asked.

  “I already know what you look like.”

  She threw her pillow at him.

  He sat there for a moment, pillow on face and chest before he pulled it away. His expression terribly serious, he murmured, “Thank you,” then placed it behind his head.

  Which left Rosalind without a pillow.

  She inhaled sharply. “That was my pillow.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have thrown it at me. It was rather childish of you.”

  “Childish!” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s childish. You, refusing to look at me.”

  “Why the pressing need for me to look at you? Have you been away from your admirers too long and are suffering from the effects of inattention?”

  “Oh, I think I despise you.”

  “Good.”

  “Why is that good?”

  “Because usually,” he drawled, his voice low and deep, “people don’t converse with individuals they don’t like. And I’d li
ke to sleep, but I can’t if you don’t hush.”

  “Now I’m positive I don’t like you.”

  “Yes, you do. I could tell by the way you looked at me once I relieved you of your burden and carried the trunk the rest of the way.”

  “I was relieved that I didn’t have to hurt you again.”

  He shrugged, the faintest smile curving his lips.

  “And do you like me?” she blurted without filtering her thoughts.

  After a brief hesitation, he shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. “No,” he said simply.

  “NO?” she couldn’t help but shout.

  “Maybe a wee bit.”

  “Oh, how my heart swells.”

  He chuckled low and quiet.

  She sighed, long and drawn out. “I can’t sleep,” she complained.

  “Strangely, neither can I.”

  “Do you want to know why I can’t sleep?”

  Silence.

  She decided to answer anyway. “I can’t sleep because you look so uncomfortable over there.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you appear to be.” She bit her lip. “Your neck will undoubtedly be sore tomorrow.”

  One gray eye opened a tiny bit. “Then where should I sleep, Rosalind?”

  She suddenly felt like she had been prodding a sleeping bear, only to find out it was a dangerous game. She toyed with the edge of the coverlet. “Well, I mean . . . it’s a fairly large bed.”

  “Quite.”

  The other eye opened and heat pooled low in her belly. He looked like he wanted to gobble her up. “An invitation?”

  She nodded.

  To her surprise, he unfolded himself from the chair and stretched.

  Rosalind watched him, realized she just might be drooling, then turned away. She scooted over and opened the blanket.

  Eyes trained on her the entire time, he replaced the pillow she threw at him, then slid in next to her. “Good night,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

  “Good night,” she answered, matching his tone. “May you have pleasant dreams about tall, blond mutes frolicking in the countryside.”

  He chuckled, silently, his mirth shaking the bed. “I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares instead.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. I’ve a suspicion there will be a raven-haired pixie in my dreams.” A smile was in his voice. “She’ll have the sweetest smile and the most beguiling blue eyes, the color of a Scottish loch in spring. She tortures me and I ache for her something fierce. But she’ll not let me rest—”