by Kaki Warner
“Oh, I hope not.” Moving around the front desk, Maddie stepped into the office to retrieve her coat and Agnes, who was curled into a ball on Yancey’s cot. “But my father would have loved the uproar. He had very strong political opinions. Democratic ones, at that.”
In fact, Baronet Gresham had been so devoted to those ideals he had drained his small inheritance in futile attempts to organize collective cooperatives for coal workers, or draymen, or anyone else who would listen. A bit of a dreamer, her father was.
“Perhaps that’s why you aren’t jumping at the chance at a title.”
“Perhaps.” After donning her coat and scooping up Agnes before she could bolt into the dining room, Maddie said her good nights and went down the hall to the back door.
Agnes, having spent the evening inside the office, was enthusiastic for an outing. Wiggling out of Maddie’s arms as soon as they stepped onto the back stoop, she trotted happily down the lane, weaving in and out of puddles and adding a few of her own.
The snow had stopped, yet seemed suspended in the thick fog, as if gathering momentum for another try. Most of what had already fallen had melted on contact, so there wasn’t enough accumulation to make footing hazardous.
Deciding Ash might be checking on Lurch or chatting with Driscoll, Maddie pulled her coat tight against the chill and headed in the direction of the livery.
The barn was dark except for a pale wash of light shining out the back and a lit window in the front office where Mr. Driscoll slept. As she drew nearer, she noted a faint glow in the shadows and saw the liveryman sitting on an overturned bucket by the open double doors, smoking a pipe.
“Evening, ma’am. Come to check on the girls?”
“I’m sure the mules are fine, Mr. Driscoll. It’s Ashby I’m looking for. Have you seen him?”
The hostler gestured with the pipe toward the back of the barn. “Yonder in your wagon. Saw him go in. Heard some cussing and banging around earlier, but nothing since. Dog’s still here, though, sharing a stall with his horse. Need a lantern?”
“I see you left one lit in the back of the barn. It should be sufficient, thank you.” Leaving Agnes digging for mice in the manure pile, Maddie went through the barn and out the rear double doors.
No light showed in the wagon.
Moving carefully on the damp steps, she quietly opened the door.
The small stove was unlit and the room was as cold inside as it was out. It had a deserted feel to it. Maddie was about to close the door and look elsewhere for Ash when she heard soft exhalations from the bed. Opening the door wider so the dim lantern light from the barn could shine in, she saw Ash’s long form sprawled on his back on her bed, his booted feet protruding well past the end. “Ash?” she called.
He lurched upright, a pistol in his grip. “Halt!”
Maddie almost fell back down the steps. “Don’t! It’s me! Maddie.”
“Holy Christ.” The pistol clattered to the floor. He flopped onto his back, both hands clasped to his head. “Bluidy hell! I almost shot you!”
“I-I’m sorry.” Maddie pressed a hand over her thudding heart and struggled to catch her breath. Was the man expecting an Indian attack? “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Dinna do that ever again.”
“I assure you, I won’t.” It was obvious from the scent of spirits hanging in the still air that he had been drinking. That surprised her—Ash had never been much of a drinker before. But then, during the short time they had spent together, they had been too intoxicated with each other to need additional stimulants.
He pulled his hands away from his head. With a groan, he pushed himself upright and swung his feet to the floor, then sat there, hands gripping the mattress by his hips, his head hanging.
Maddie waited, wondering at his stillness, his silence, the weary slump of his shoulders. After a moment, when he still hadn’t moved or spoken, she stepped forward. “Ash? Is everything all right?”
He looked up, his expression shadowed by a fall of gray brown hair over his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” She took another step then stopped, her skirts almost brushing his boots. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Go back to your…” He started to wave a hand in the direction of the hotel, then groaned and clapped it to his temple instead. She heard him mutter something in Gaelic.
“Is it your side?”
His hand fell back to the mattress. “A bit of a headache, is all.”
“From drinking.”
“That, too.”
Not sure what to make of that, Maddie remained silent, debating whether to apologize for asking him to keep their marriage a secret, or to berate him for taking too much drink.
“I told them about you,” she finally said.
His head came slowly up. “Told them what?”
“That you’re my husband.”
“Oh, brave lass. And what else did you tell them?” He gave a harsh laugh that carried no mirth. “That I canna read? That I’m half crippled? That you’re ashamed to own me as your husband?”
His vehemence stunned her. She would never have guessed her big, capable husband hid such doubts beneath his stiff-backed posture. She didn’t know how to respond, what to say. But sensing she would only anger him more if she acknowledged those doubts by offering reassuring platitudes, she decided to treat it like the foolishness it was. “No, I didn’t tell them any of that. Nor did I tell them that you talk to yourself when you think you’re alone, or that you couldn’t carry a tune in a five-gallon bucket, or that your knees are ticklish, or that you have a mole on your—”
“Bluidy woman.” Before she knew what he was about, he grabbed her arms, jerked her forward between his splayed knees, and kissed her.
It wasn’t a tender kiss like the one he’d given her before he’d left to have the wheel repaired. This one was raw and savage and filled with need.
And Maddie responded to it like a woman starved. When he finally pulled back, she was shaking, her breath trapped in her throat.
Setting her away from him but still gripping her arms, he stared into her eyes, his expression so bleak she almost turned away from it. “And did you tell them that, Maddie Wallace?”
Her thoughts in chaos and her body singing as it hadn’t in long, empty years, Maddie leaned toward him. “Ask me again.”
“Oh, lass…” It was a gentler kiss this time, as if to soothe his earlier assault. She stood over him, pressing against him, her fingers in his hair, the heat of him burning through her dress, her body shivering as his big hand slid up her back, then around to her waist and up…
.…to push her away.
“I canna do it.”
She froze, staring down at his bent head, the words careening around in her head. What was this? The ultimate rejection after she had finally allowed herself to weaken?
“You can’t do what?”
“This. Us. Here.” He lifted a hand to his left temple. “In this wee room and ridiculous bed, with the children watching and my head—”
“Children?” Hearing breathing behind her, Maddie whirled to see Tricks and Agnes regarding them quizzically from the open doorway. When had they arrived?
Then Ash’s other words brought her around again. “Your head? What’s wrong with your head? I thought it was just a headache.” But even as she spoke, images filled her mind—the scar above his temple, the way his hand kept returning to it, the drinking and his self-imposed exile out here in this cold wagon. He was in pain, and too stubborn and prideful to mention it.
So it wasn’t her, after all. She didn’t know whether to dance a jig or slap him hard.
“It’s your injury, isn’t it? And don’t say you’re fine when it’s obvious you’re not, Angus Wallace. Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged, then winced and rubbed his temple again. “It only comes now and then. Less often as the months pass, u
nless I do something to aggravate it.”
“Like wrestle with a broken wheel,” she snapped, astounded at the man’s hardheadedness, “then ride in a bouncing wagon all day.”
“Well…aye…”
“What do you do for it?”
He choked off a bitter laugh. “Drink. Sleep. Avoid light. Dinna fuss, lass. It will be gone by morning.”
“You are such a nincompoop. Get up.”
He lifted his head and squinted at her, his eyes reflecting back the pale light coming through the open door. “Nincompoop?”
“There’s no need for you to stay out here,” she went on, motioning impatiently for him to rise, which he did, but rather gingerly. “Lucinda has set aside the big suite for us.”
“Us?”
“I cannot believe how utterly ridiculous you are. Be careful not to bump your head on the ceiling.” Shooing the dogs back out, she steered him toward the door. “It’s big and roomy and overlooks the back, so it’ll be nice and quiet. Let me go down the steps first in case you fall.”
He paused on the threshold, his hands braced on either side of the door frame. “And you’ll catch me if I do, lass?”
Recognizing the absurdity of that, she backed away from the bottom of the stair and called the dogs out of the way. “Just be wary. It’s slick.”
“This is exactly why I dinna say anything,” he muttered, carefully negotiating the narrow treads. “You’re treating me like a bluidy cripple.”
“Nincompoop,” she corrected. “Which you are.”
Once he reached the ground, she slipped her arm through his and guided him toward the barn. Seeing no light in the office, she surmised Mr. Driscoll had retired for the night, and paused to turn down the lamp bolted inside the door. The sudden darkness awakened her other senses, and as they walked down the center aisle, Maddie heard horses moving in their stalls—the stomp of hooves, chewing, the rustle of straw. The air was redolent with the earthy, musty scents of manure and grain and hay. And the man beside her.
Why hadn’t he told her? Did he think she wouldn’t care that he was in pain?
“I can walk on my own, ye ken,” he muttered as they left the barn and turned toward the hotel.
In his weakened state, his Scottish accent was stronger. Hearing it reminded her of other times when his brogue had slipped past his reserve—whispering commands and soft encouragements in the dark cocoon of their draped bed. The memory of it brought heat low in her belly.
“I know. But you’re big and warm, and I’m cold.”
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull his arm away, either.
The earlier fog had thickened to a heavy mist that dripped from sagging spruce boughs and muffled the sound of the creek running fast and high a few yards from the road. There was an oppressive stillness to it that reminded Maddie of foggy nights in the poor, working areas of London where her father held his union meetings, and where angry words often erupted in violence. Instinctively, she pressed closer to the man beside her.
Seeking protection from a man who could scarcely walk on his own.
Yet it felt right. And good. She needed this man. And in allowing his stiff-backed pride to bend enough to reveal to her this new weakness, he was showing that he needed her, too.
But that didn’t change anything. He was still bound by the duties of his position, and she was just as determined to maintain her independence.
“I can carry a tune.”
She looked up at him.
“You said I couldna, but I can. I’m a piper. Do you no’ remember that morning I played ‘Scotland the Brave’ at your window?”
Of course she remembered. Even now, the memory of awakening from a dead sleep to that caterwauling raised the hairs on her arms. But she had never thought the sounds a bagpipe made even remotely resembled a tune. “Yes, I remember it well.”
“Aye. There’s naught like the call of the pipes on a misty morn.”
“I so agree.”
The dogs trotted zigzag patterns down the rutted track, drawn to every scent. Ahead at the hotel, lamplight from the upstairs rooms lit the darkness like square beacons of light leading them safely through the damp, gray mist. It was beautiful and eerie and Maddie wondered if there might ever come a day when photography equipment would be able to capture that simple contrast of light and dark.
“You’ll be giving me another chance,” Ash said, breaking into her thoughts as they neared the hotel. Not so much a suggestion, as an order. Ever the soldier, Angus Wallace was.
“Will I?”
“Ye will.” He looked down at her, that fall of hair now clinging damply to his brow. “I crossed an ocean and half this country to find you, lass. Do ye ken how hard that was for a man who can hardly read a map and mixes up his rights and lefts?”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Aye. Because of you. So you’ll be giving me a second chance, so you will.”
Definitely an order. She said nothing, and kept her head down so he wouldn’t see her smile.
By the time they made it up the stairs to their suite, Ash was starting to sag again. His face had lost color, and a deep furrow drew his dark brows together over his narrowed eyes. Each of his steps was careful and measured and came down softly so as not to jar.
She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. While the dogs explored every nook and cranny of the sitting area, Maddie walked on to the bedroom on the left. “This should be the quietest, I think.” After snapping the drapes closed, she pulled back the counterpane on the bed. “And this bed has no foot rail, which should suit you better.”
Ash stood in the doorway, watching her.
“I remember how you hated banging your toes and not being able to stretch out.” The words awakened images that brought heat to her cheeks. She motioned to the bed. “Sit, please. I’ll help you with your boots.” When he didn’t move, she added, “Unless you’d prefer to sleep the rest of the night in them?”
He sat on the bed. Kneeling beside his knee, she began unlacing the closure that went up the outside of his right boot beside a sewn-in sheath for his long knife. She was so intent on her task she didn’t realize he had reached out until she felt something touching her hair. Surprised, she looked up.
“You have beautiful hair, lass.” Instead of meeting her gaze, he watched his fingers smooth back a lock that had slipped loose from the pins.
His hand felt big and heavy and warm against her scalp. She refrained from leaning into it like a purring cat.
“I wondered if it was as soft as I remembered.” When he let his hand fall back to the bed, it was trembling. “I’m sorry to be so weak.” He had such a sad, weary look on his face it brought a catch to her throat.
Unable to bear it, she looked down and began loosening the laces on his left boot. “You’re not weak. And you needn’t apologize to me.”
“Guid.” She heard the smile beneath the brogue. “But I was apologizing to myself for allowing my mind to make plans my puir body canna fulfill. An unusual happenstance, so it is. Especially for a Scotsman.”
“Indeed? I’ve never heard that.” Biting back a smile, she finished unlacing and motioned for him to lift his foot. After pulling off his boots, she set them at the foot of the bed, then stood. “Shall I help with the rest of your clothing?” She tried to sound matter of fact, but her voice came out higher and thinner than usual.
“I’ll manage, love. A man can suffer only so much coddling.”
“Indeed? Then I’ll not badger you about food. Good night.” She started for the door.
“Food?”
She stopped and turned back. “I was thinking a bit of cheese or a slice of ham might settle all that alcohol I heard sloshing around, but I wouldn’t want to coddle you beyond forbearance.”
His smile made her smile. “I’ll endure it. For you, love.”
“You’re too kind.”
When she returned with a plate a few minutes later, he was sprawled on top of the beddi
ng, one arm over his eyes, the other dangling off the mattress so that his hand rested on Tricks, who was stretched out beside the bed. He still wore his trousers and shirt, although he’d slipped off his braces and loosened the buttons at his collar. He was snoring.
Her poor wounded warrior.
Setting the plate on the bureau out of the wolfhound’s reach, she tiptoed from the room.
Eleven
He watched her slowly awaken, her breath catching on a deep inhale as she stretched like a cat in the sun. Leaning on one elbow beside her, he gently coaxed her onto her back and was rewarded when she arched against his stroking hand, a small sigh escaping her throat. “Morning, love.”
“Ash…?”
“No, ’tis the archbishop of Canterbury.”
Her eyes blinked open, slowly focused on his. He felt her body go still. He watched her, waiting, his palm resting over the small birthmark just below her breast. If she rejected him now, he would go into his bedroom, load his pistol, and put it to his head.
Or maybe not.
As long as there was Maddie, there was hope.
With her fingertip, she traced an old saber scar by his neck. “If you’re the archbishop, then where is your shepherd’s crook?”
“ ’Tis right here, lass.” He leaned down and kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other. Lifting his head, he grinned down at her as he trailed his fingers over her breast. “Would you like to touch it?”
Maddie laughed softly, her gaze drifting from his beautiful eyes with that scar through one dark brow, across the bristled curve of his jaw, down his strong neck to the rounded slope of his shoulder. Tendon and muscle and bone. But put together in a way that made her heart sing. “Apparently, the pain in your head is gone.”
“Aye. ’Tis moved elsewhere.”
