by Anne Barton
“Look out!” Olivia cried, pointing over James’s shoulder. Gordon grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back.
The hairs on the back of James’s neck stood on end—a little too late.
He spun on his heel just in time for Crutcher to plow him over. James’s feet left the ground and he sailed through the air like he’d been tossed from his horse. His back hit the packed dirt first. A split second later, his skull smacked the ground with a sickening thud. Before James could regain his breath, Crutcher landed on top of him and wedged an elbow across his throat.
Air. James needed it—was desperate for a big gulp of it. The world was already growing dark around the edges; dizziness seduced him, and he almost gave in.
“Stop it, you big brute!” Olivia’s scolding had no effect on Crutcher, but it sharpened James’s focus. He pried Crutcher’s elbow away from his throat and, using his legs, rocked his body several times until he gained enough momentum to roll the drunk off him.
Someone grabbed James beneath his arms and hoisted him to his feet. The world tilted and pain spliced through his head.
But he hadn’t lost a fight in two decades, and he wasn’t about to lose one now.
“Be careful, James.” A tremor in Olivia’s voice betrayed her fear, but he also heard her confidence. Knew he had to live up to it.
Crutcher circled, testing him with the occasional jab. James deflected them all. At least his reflexes worked on some basic level. He bided his time, letting Crutcher grow more cocky, more careless. Then, just as the bastard drew his arm back for his knockout punch, James landed a solid blow to the face with a lightning-fast right hook. His left fist followed with an uppercut to the jaw.
Crutcher’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground like a giant without a beanstalk. Out cold.
For half a minute, no one moved.
Then, everyone moved—except Crutcher.
One of his cronies tried to rouse him with a nudge of his boot heel. When that didn’t work, he reluctantly sacrificed the ale in his glass, pouring it onto Crutcher’s swelling face.
Most of the onlookers crowded around James. “Well done!” they shouted, slapping him on the back. But he was still dazed, and his head felt too big for his neck to hold.
“Where’s Olivia?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The woman’s over there,” said Gordon, pointing a few yards behind him. “Retrieving your jacket.” The crowd of men parted respectfully as Olivia rushed toward James.
“I was terrified for you,” she said. “Are you hurt?”
James would have raised a brow, but his head ached too much. “Not mortally.”
She giggled nervously. “Oh, well that’s good. I believe this is yours.” As she thrust his jacket toward him, a folded note fluttered to the ground.
Olivia’s letter. Damn it.
She stooped to pick it up and when her fingertips were a mere inch from the note, he dove and snatched it off the ground. The letter secure—if somewhat crushed—in his fist, he pushed himself to his feet and brushed the dirt from his trousers. Again.
Sweet Jesus, that had been close.
Meanwhile, Olivia stood beside him, still holding his jacket and staring at him curiously. “That was a rather dramatic way to pick up a bit of paper,” she remarked. “What is it, a writ from the prince regent?”
“Maybe. And I hardly think you are one to lecture on dramatics.”
“Point taken.” She bit her bottom lip, and something inside him melted a little.
He took his jacket from her, jammed his arms into it, and stuffed Olivia’s letter into the chest pocket. He had to be more careful with that bloody note. “What are you doing here?” She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. “Never mind. I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” He gazed at the circle of inn patrons who’d gathered around them. Crutcher had started hobbling home with the help of his friend, but there were still too many sets of curious eyes and ears. “Gather your maid. We’ll go back inside and talk there.” As they walked, he asked, “Who else came with you?”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Our coachman, Terrence. He’s seeing to the horses.”
Good God. He guided Olivia toward the table where she’d been sitting; her maid trailed closely behind them. No sooner had the three of them sat than the innkeeper’s wife set two hearty bowls of shepherd’s pie onto the table before the ladies. “I’ll be back with some bread and ale,” she told them. “Can I get you some stew or a pint, Mr. Averill?”
“I’ll take a brandy.”
She nodded and scuttled off.
Neither Olivia nor her maid lifted her spoon.
“Please, eat,” James said. He had several questions for Olivia, but he wasn’t going to ask them in front of her maid. “We’ll talk afterward.” Huntford couldn’t possibly have approved Olivia’s jaunt to the Lakes. How the devil had she managed to travel three hundred miles from London without her brother’s knowledge?
James had lots of questions.
And the most pressing one was what the bloody hell to do with Olivia Sherbourne.
Chapter Five
Dig: (1) An archaeological site where an excavation is in process. (2) A cutting, often sarcastic, remark, as in
Though she undoubtedly deserved it, his thoughtless dig wounded her to the core.
A mere hour before, Olivia had been so famished that she’d rashly followed the smell of shepherd’s pie into the inn’s taproom instead of ordering it to be sent up to her room. But now, as James glared at her with disapproving yet beautiful mossy-green eyes, she could only manage to choke down a few forkfuls of her dinner.
James was doing a lot of staring and very little talking. Perhaps he was still dazed after being blindsided by Crutcher, but Olivia got the distinct impression that he wanted to issue a sound scolding—and was valiantly attempting to restrain himself until the appropriate time and place.
Olivia dedicated herself to the task of delaying that time and place for as long as possible.
No doubt, there would be consequences for her reckless behavior. But right now, as she sipped her ale and glanced at James from beneath her lashes, she knew the risks had been worth it.
She was three hundred miles away from London. Alone with James—if one discounted Hildy and the dozen or so villagers and travelers in the taproom who eyed them curiously.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” James wore a scowl, but the concern beneath it warmed Olivia’s heart.
“Yes.” She flashed him her most charming smile. “Are you enjoying Haven Bridge?”
He snorted. “We need to talk.”
“Very well.” She pushed her plate to the side and folded her hands demurely.
“Not here.”
“It’s too dark to stroll outside,” she said. “What venue did you have in mind, exactly?”
James ground his teeth. “I assume you have a room upstairs?”
“Of course.”
In a lower voice he asked, “Which door?”
Olivia flushed. A gentleman asking for directions to her room was shocking—even for her. “The second on the left.”
“Go up with Hildy. I’ll follow in the next hour or so. When I knock, answer quickly so no one sees me in the hallway outside your room.”
Olivia wanted to turn a cartwheel right there on the spot. She was to have a rendezvous with James. Tonight. “I understand.” She endeavored to sound cool, as though she did this sort of thing all the time. “Come, Hildy.”
As Olivia slid off the bench, James stood. She inclined her head, determined to exit the taproom gracefully in spite of her wobbly knees.
The moment she and Hildy reached their room, the maid wrung her hands. “It’s not proper for Mr. Averill to come knocking in the middle of the night.”
“It’s only ten o’clock.” But she understood Hildy’s point, and she shot the maid an apologetic smile. Poor Hildy. Olivia had subjected her to one impropriety after anoth
er since they left London three days ago.
“I think you should tell Mr. Averill you’d prefer to meet with him tomorrow. You could go for a walk—and I would accompany you.”
“I’ll suggest it to James when he arrives, but he seemed rather adamant about wanting to talk.”
“The duke would not be pleased,” Hildy warned.
That was putting it mildly. If Owen knew what Olivia had done, he’d probably force her to spend the rest of her life in a convent. And she shuddered to think what he’d do to James.
Which was why Owen simply must not learn of her daring adventure.
“Since we have a little time before James arrives, help me change out of this.” Olivia eyed her dusty traveling gown with distaste. What did one wear to a late-night tryst?
As though Olivia had uttered the question aloud, Hildy offered, “The white muslin?”
Her maid was, no doubt, hopeful that white would serve as a reminder to all parties that Olivia was an innocent young maiden. Although Olivia was inclined to object for that very reason, she had to agree it was the simplest dress she’d brought and the most appropriate. “Very well.”
Hildy had not had time to unpack Olivia’s things and immediately began rummaging through her portmanteau. Olivia busied herself as well, washing up and repairing her hair. An hour later, she was ready—sitting in a hard wooden chair, pretending to read a book.
When a knock sounded at the door, Hildy tsked and Olivia leaped to her feet.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Averill.” A slight pause. “Who else would it be?”
The rich, deep sound of his voice made her heart beat faster. She opened the door and drank in the sight of his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and long, lean legs. “Would you like to come in?” she whispered.
He propped an arm on the door frame and leaned in to look at her room. Upon spying Hildy, he shook his head. “No.” He clasped a hand around her wrist and glanced into the hallway behind him before tugging her forward. “Come with me.”
Olivia’s mouth went dry, but she turned to give her horrified maid a reassuring smile. “Try to sleep. I’ll return shortly.”
Before she knew it, James had led her into the corridor. They tripped lightly down the runner covering the old wood floor and ducked into a room two doors down on the right.
James’s room. His worn leather bag sat on the floor beside a washstand, and his hat hung on a hook beside it. The faint smell of his shaving soap tickled her nose.
He let go of her wrist, placed a large hand at the small of her back, and propelled her inside. Then he closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He pointed at the bed. “Sit.”
As a matter of pride, she ignored the command and sat on the wooden chair near the foot of the bed. James paced in front of her, although the confines of the room only allowed him to take two small strides in one direction before turning around. This seemed to vex him even more.
Olivia waited patiently, hands in her lap and ankles crossed primly.
At last, James halted and raked his hand through his hair like he wanted to pull out a fistful. “What in the hell are you doing in Haven Bridge?”
During the long coach ride from London, Olivia had debated how to best answer this question and hadn’t come to any clear conclusion—until now.
She had to tell him the truth.
“I couldn’t bear the way you left without saying good-bye. It felt like you were running away from me. From us.”
“Olivia.” His voice was ripe with exasperation. “There is no ‘us.’ ”
Ouch. That smarted. “Well of course there is.” Before he could contradict her, she added, “And it was powerful enough to drive you out of town.”
James closed his eyes. Like he needed a moment to compose himself and his thoughts. “I suppose I deserved that. I handled things badly on the night of the Easton ball.”
“You also handled things badly the next day when you visited Owen.”
“That may be true. But, Olivia, what would you have had me do? I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I did. I can’t take it back no matter how much I want to.”
Ouch again.
“I’m leaving for Egypt in a couple of months,” he continued. “There can be no future for us. You must realize that.”
She shrugged. “I take a different view of things.”
“Let me ask a simpler question,” James said. “Does Huntford know you’re here?”
“I should say not.”
James cursed under his breath. “Where does he think you are?”
“With my aunt Eustace in Oxfordshire.” Olivia drew in a deep breath. “I made a great show of writing her a letter informing her of my plans to visit but never sent it. I didn’t want dear Aunt Eustace to worry when I failed to arrive.”
“How very considerate of you.” His sarcasm stung. “And how did you convince your coachman and Hildy to go along with your scheme?”
Olivia stared at her hands, wishing her explanations didn’t sound so shameful to her own ears. She’d told herself that the ends justified the means, but that didn’t prevent her from feeling awful. “When we stopped at an inn the first night, I casually mentioned how eager I was to see Aunt Eustace’s charming cottage near the Lakes. The coachman protested at first and said his instructions were to deliver me to Oxfordshire, but I assured him that Owen was aware of the change of plans and that Aunt Eustace was expecting me to arrive in Haven Bridge in a couple days’ time.”
“So you lied to them.”
Must he make her admit it? “Yes.”
James resumed his pacing. “How did you know I would be here?”
“I didn’t know for certain, but when you said you were going to the Lakes, I assumed you’d take the opportunity to visit your uncle Humphrey. You once mentioned him at a dinner party. I could tell by the way you described his cluttered study and sharp mind that you were very fond of him—and of Haven Bridge.”
James shook his head. “I can’t say I recall that conversation.”
“It was some time ago,” Olivia said.
“And you remembered?” James’s forehead wrinkled, and she resisted the urge to smooth away the lines with her fingertip.
She did remember, and she treasured time spent with him—especially the moments where he confided little snippets of himself. “I thought I might like to visit Haven Bridge myself someday.”
James sank onto the foot of the bed so that his eyes—which fairly sparked with anger—were level with hers. “Coming here without your brother’s knowledge was reckless. You put yourself in peril. If you’d been accosted by highwaymen on the way here, you could have found yourself stranded in the wilderness—or worse.”
“The peaceful countryside isn’t exactly teeming with thieves. A robbery could just as easily have happened on the way to my aunt Eustace’s,” Olivia reasoned. She’d never really considered all the things that could go wrong with her plan; she’d been too focused on finding James.
“You are missing the point,” James said evenly. “If something had happened to you, no one would have even known. Your aunt wasn’t expecting you and God knows I wasn’t.”
“I see no purpose in dwelling on all the things that could have gone wrong. Nothing did.”
“Have you forgotten that a drunken farm laborer made improper advances toward you? That could have ended badly.”
She dared a small smile. “But it didn’t, thanks to you.”
James didn’t soften in the least; rather, he looked like he wanted to break something. “First thing in the morning, I shall send word to Huntford informing him of your whereabouts. I suspect he’ll come to retrieve you himself, which means he’ll have three days of travel in which to ponder various forms of punishment for your ill-advised escapade.”
Olivia squirmed on the hard wooden chair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t act so hastily—there are other options.”
James laughed, a hollow, barking sound. “Such as?”
“Tomorrow, I could write Aunt Eustace, let her know I’m coming, and leave for Oxfordshire the following day. Owen need never know about my detour to Haven Bridge.”
“I’m not going to lie to your brother.”
“If you want to tell him the whole sordid tale, I cannot stop you.” Olivia sighed dramatically. “But do not be surprised when he puts me on the next ship to America.”
“It would serve you right.”
Now it was Olivia’s turn to get up and pace. “And what of you? Do you not bear any responsibility? Not that I would ever dream of implicating you, but one could make the case that you encouraged me.”
“I encouraged you?”
“When you kissed me.”
“Yes,” he snapped dryly, “how could I forget?”
Ouch. Thrice wounded.
“Say what you like, James. But I know that kiss meant something to you. I felt it in the way you held me—like you wanted me all to yourself.” She might have added that he looked at her like she was the last marshmallow on the dessert tray, but she saw no need to belabor the point.
He sprang up and grasped her shoulders. “Listen to me. That kiss was a mistake. I will not deny that I got carried away, but I did not expect you to be so…” He shrugged helplessly.
“So what?” She had to know.
“So… passionate,” he said grudgingly. “Or so skilled at kissing.”
Olivia’s cheeks heated. The compliment—reluctant though it may have been—more than made up for the barbs he’d delivered earlier. “Thank you. I thought you were quite a good kisser, too.”
James’s eyes narrowed. “Compared to whom?”
“It’s not important. Do go on.”
A frown crossed James’s handsome face before he continued. “You must realize that we are not at all suited. You are the sister of a duke. I am a solicitor who is leaving for Egypt at summer’s end. I do not want or need a wife. The sooner you accept that, the better off we both shall be.” With that, he released her arms, strode to the opposite side of the room, and stared out the small window that overlooked the inn’s courtyard.
