“Time to load up and . . .” a coarse voice yelled from behind, the words blending together.
She turned her head. Yes, she was clearly being addressed.
She stepped up into the coach. Her nose twitched. Definitely horses and sweat. The air hung heavy and little light seeped through the covered windows.
She’d had enough. It had been one of the worst days of her entire life, perhaps second only to the day when her father had . . . And today had come after the most awful weeks of travel, of rain and ice, of delays and detours, and of cold, such endless cold. She should have arrived at her uncle’s days ago and now she wouldn’t even be there for Christmas.
With great determination and not a little anger, she sat on the bench, giving the boots a good shove with her hip.
They moved an inch, perhaps two.
Another shove. Another inch.
Would nothing wake the man?
She glanced down and cursed softly to herself. Her thick cloak had fallen where she’d pushed against the boots and a long streak of mud marked the dark green wool of her dress. Another quiet curse. She only had the one dress. Her maid had disappeared with her travel bag sometime the day before and everything else she owned was far behind, coming by cart. All she had was her reticule, holding little more than her few remaining coins, a couple of pieces of candy, and a small Bible. She didn’t even have a comb.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that.
With great care she wrapped her dress and cloak tight and settled gingerly on the bench, doing her best to avoid any further contact with those boots.
The door to the coach clicked shut, her world suddenly dark and intimate—and filled with man. Large, dangerous man.
Dangerous. She wasn’t sure why she thought so, but something about him spoke of a man more than capable of defending himself.
Edging closer to the wall, she became aware of another scent, one she could not quite place, but reminiscent of musk and dark corners. Pressing fully against the side, she wished she could get even further away, something deep in her belly telling her the time to flee was now.
A loud snort echoed from across the cabin.
She turned her head and stared at the man but he gave no indication of movement beyond the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
At least she knew he wasn’t dead.
Had he snorted in his sleep? Could it have been a snore? Why was she convinced he’d seen her movement, heard her soft curses, and been unmoved by them—in a very literal sense? A true gentleman would have made way the moment he realized she was there.
And why did she care?
* * *
James Barran bit down on his lip. He had to be more careful or he’d be forced to speak with the girl—woman? Lady? He couldn’t see much of her beyond the narrow waist and full hips. The waist said girl, but those hips cried woman. Granted, that might be her petticoats; given the cold, she was probably wearing enough of them. And then there was the way she moved, all stiffness and bristle. That said lady, and the last thing he wanted was to spend the next hours in any kind of discussion with a lady. He’d had enough of that in London. Not that it was likely she actually had any claim to the title. Anyone of worth would be traveling in a private vehicle and no lady would be traveling alone.
Not that it mattered—at least not as long as she didn’t try and talk to him. He’d rushed from London as soon as he’d heard from Catriona and he would take these scant few minutes of rest.
He had his own concerns this day and this woman was most certainly not one of them, not even if the light scent of lilacs had entered the coach along wither her, calling to something buried deep inside him.
The coach jostled to motion, pulling away from the inn, and he used the motion to move and resettle, turning away from her but granting her a few more inches of space on the opposite bench. His nurse had taught him some manners even if that had been years ago, long before war and travel and injury had turned him into the man he now was.
She didn’t move, not a single inch.
He held in a grunt and settled himself more comfortably. If the next inn had a spare horse, he’d be on his way, and he needed to rest while he could. Only ill luck and trickery had forced him into this mode of travel when speed was of such essence.
He’d do anything to get to Glasgow before the wedding. Anything.
* * *
Snores rattled through the coach, shaking her almost as much as the rutted roads. Emma pulled herself straighter, wishing that the corset she’d been wearing since her maid’s disappearance wasn’t cutting into her ribs. She’d tried leaning against the wall of the coach but that only jostled her more and she already felt like her teeth were coming loose. At least the boots had moved to the other end of the seat, even if it was because the man was sitting diagonally and taking up even more space—if that were even possible. How could anyone be that big, that muscular? She did have to admit that he was well put together from what she could see—and she had risked more than a few peeks. It was hard not to when she was in such proximity to his well-defined thighs. He shifted, grumbling in his sleep, something about a Catriona—probably a woman he fancied or perhaps a wife.
A wife? For some reason, she didn’t like to think about that. And that was nonsense. There was no reason for her to be feeling such a thing, thinking such a thing.
But thinking about him was better than thinking about her own problems. She lay her head back and tried to sleep. Shouldn’t the rocking of the coach be restful? Her head swung forward and then jerked back. If it were a little warmer she could take off her cloak and use it as a pillow, but the air had warmed very little despite the closeness of the compartment. If only her maid had not deserted her. If only she’d been willing to travel as slowly as the baggage. If only the coach had not been forced to change roads due to mud. If only her cousin had been kinder when he inherited. If only her mother had come from someplace other than the wilds of Scotland. If only she’d had a brother of her own. If only her father hadn’t died. If only . . .
It was so very easy to feel sorry for herself.
A bitter smile formed. Perhaps she should consider it a new skill. She’d certainly never wallowed in misery before, but then she’d never had a reason to. Only now did she realize how easy her life had always been. If she’d been alone she’d have put her head down and howled. This was not how her life was supposed to be.
She should be preparing for a ball, thinking about husbands and households and new gowns—not wondering if she had enough left in her purse to purchase a room for herself at the next inn.
Before she could sink into even greater despair, the coach jerked to a sudden halt—tossing her clear across the interior.
Wool-covered hard muscle. Soft bristles against her cheek. The smell of lanolin and damp.
She lifted her head and stared up, meeting a pair of clear blue eyes. For a moment, she froze, lost in their beautiful shadowed depths. Her fingers gripped his coat tightly. She pressed back, trying to free herself, but the man shifted an arm around her, pressing her further into his chest.
She pushed harder.
“Stay still.” They were the first words she’d heard him say, the low gravelly voice echoing about the tight space, sending a strange tingle through her. The small muscles around his eyes tightened.
Her own muscles tensed and she began to struggle.
“Still, I say, lass. We’ll be moving again in a moment and you don’t want to go tossin’ about anymore. I’ve enough bruises without you adding more.” His voice was little more than a growl but still, she understood each word.
That made sense, but . . .
“Now be still and let me get back my dreams.”
“But, what . . .”
“Quiet, woman.” His arm pressed her tight, soft breast pressing again into hard muscle—and then he shut his eyes, giving her no more attention.
And how did one reply to that? None of the manners she’d spent her l
ife learning gave her the slightest clue. She turned her head, trying to find a breath that did not reek of damp wool and man. She pushed upward and he gave way enough that she could settle her cheek against his strong thigh.
And then what? She couldn’t stay here, cuddled up against a man whose name she didn’t even know. It didn’t matter that for the first time in days she could feel warmth seeping into her. It was unthinkable—even if some part of her didn’t want to move at all.
A few muffled cries and calls from outside and the coach began to move again.
She should try again to free herself. Now that they were moving again there was truly no reason for her to remain here, pressed against him, but he was warm—and comfortable—and she could feel the sleep she’d been longing for starting to ease about her. Did it really matter? Who would ever know? Once the coach arrived in Glasgow, she’d never see him again. Perhaps even before. He might leave at one of the earlier stops. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt just to close her eyes for a moment, to rest in this magic nest of safety and warmth.
* * *
James knew the moment that sleep took her, the moment that her body softened against his, melting—while his own body did just the opposite. He could only hope she didn’t awaken and realize the situation. He knew it was only that she was female and soft, but there was no denying that his body liked her very much. If he’d a lick of sense, he’d have moved her back to her own bench, but somehow he didn’t want her to move, didn’t want her out of his arms. He tried to convince himself that it was only that she might wake and then he would be forced to talk to her. He’d probably already made a mistake by speaking to her at all. The last thing he, or his body, wanted was conversation.
Yes, that was why he didn’t want her to move. It was the only possible reason.
If only he still had his horse. His fist and Robert’s face would certainly be having a conversation when next they met—and that wasn’t even fitting Catriona into the matter. It was one thing to gallop free through the hills and quite another to bump along in this poorly sprung vehicle. He’d have walked if time weren’t so crucial. He had to make it to Glasgow in time to stop the wedding. It was unthinkable that Catriona should wed Robert. He didn’t care how fine a match folks said it was. He knew far too much about Robert to think he’d ever have the makings of a decent husband and certainly not for a girl as sweet and pure as Catriona.
He and Robert might have been the best of friends for years, but there was no way he was suitable for Catriona. James knew his secrets, knew too much about his behavior with women to ever imagine him in the role of faithful husband. It was as ridiculous as thinking of himself as a husband. It was years before he’d be ready for that.
He’d told Robert as much the last time they’d spoken—which undoubtedly explained his stolen horse. Robert had understood just how serious he was about stopping the wedding and had taken steps. James felt the hint of a smile play about his lips. He had to admit he’d have done the same. What was a stolen horse between friends?
His smile faded—but that still didn’t mean he was willing to let his sister marry the man.
* * *
Warm. So warm and cozy. Emma shifted her weight, trying to fight off the wakefulness that had come with the slowing of the carriage.
Carriage.
Inn.
Scotland.
Missing maid.
The thoughts entered her mind one at a time.
Carriage.
Cold.
Jarring teeth.
Quiet.
Why had it gotten so quiet?
And why was she warm? It was December and she hadn’t been warm deep in her bones for a good month.
And comfortable?
The man. She was lying on the man. How had . . . ? And what was that? She was afraid from what she’d heard she knew exactly what that was. How was she ever going to escape gracefully without causing further embarrassment to either of them? Not that he seemed the type to blush. Turning slightly, she tried to pull back, but found herself held firmly. His arm was about her, his incredibly heavy arm pushing her against . . . Was he really asleep? Could a man sleep in such a condition? She pushed again. It did feel like dead weight.
At least the coach wasn’t jostling about anymore. Was it even moving? It didn’t feel like it.
Dim light still shone behind the window covers. They’d left the inn mid-morning. How late could it be? Were they stopping for refreshment? Was there another inn along the route? One they would reach before nightfall? She did have to admit that she would welcome the chance to stretch her legs and . . . There was some noise of men moving about outside the coach, the clang of metal, the jingle of harnesses. No other noise though. It didn’t sound like a stable yard.
Maybe there was something in the road that needed to be cleared? Or one of the horses had thrown a shoe? Or . . . ? There were a million and one reasons why the coach might have stopped. It was certainly nothing to worry about. The coachman would have let them know if there were a problem of any significance.
And speaking of problems—there was no way she was staying in this position a moment longer. It was highly improper that she’d allowed the situation to develop at all. There was no way that she could rest with that pressed against her. Slithering like a snake, she tried to work her way back to her side of the carriage.
There was more jangling outside the coach. The man stirred, stretching and rolling slightly, moving away from her in a most important way. Emma held still and then, when he gave no further sign of waking, wiggled free and moved to the other bench of the coach.
She sat there for a moment, strangely bereft as the feeling of his warmth left her. She felt less safe—and that was a strange thought. Why should lying engulfed in a stranger’s arms, pressed against him in a most embarrassing way, have given her any feeling of safety? If anything she should have been worried that he might do something inappropriate. She wasn’t completely sure what that something was, but she’d always heard warnings of strange men and the things they’d try—and she’d certainly heard enough whispers from her married friends to know some of the possibilities, to know what that had meant. She pushed all thoughts of that away. It would be best to never think of it again. She would think of him only as the strange man she was forced to share a coach with.
And he certainly was strange, with that partially grown beard, battered hat, and the bit of greenish plaid fabric peeking out of his bag. He might even be a Highland warrior like those in the book she’d just finished, Rob Roy. Now that would be more along the lines of romantic than strange, but it was hard to imagine that a true hero would have such an odor about him. That actually made her smile. If she was honest, she was sure that Rob Roy had spent quite a lot of time reeking of perspiration, but it certainly was not how a girl wanted to dream about her man.
Not that she was in any way thinking that the rude creature across from her would ever be her man.
Her smile faded. It wasn’t clear that she would ever have a man.
If only she had accepted an offer of marriage before her father’s death. But then there were so many things she would have done differently if she’d had any idea that her world could change so drastically in the course of a single afternoon.
Her gut clenched. She squeezed her eyes tight, pushing aside the memory of her father’s loving face. She had no time for sorrow or self-pity.
She held herself still, her spine straight, her body rigid.
The coach was still not moving.
That was odd. Why were they still for so long when there was no sound of inn or town about them? If they didn’t move soon she’d never arrive at her uncle’s before Christmas.
As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard the driver yell and then the sound of a team racing off—but still the carriage still did not move.
In fact, there was no further movement, no further sound.
She sat for a moment longer, unsure what action to take.
&nb
sp; The man across from her gave one loud snore and then settled again.
Her fingers curled and then she forced them to relax. There was the faintest whistle of wind from outside the coach, the call of some lone bird. With some trepidation, she reached over and pushed the window cover aside. Trees. Rocks. The road. The coach had been pulled off to the side. And yes, they were certainly completely still.
Why was nobody opening the door? Surely if they were going to be stopped for some time she should be given the chance to stretch her legs and refresh herself.
She stared at the door, waiting for it to open.
It did not.
She leaned forward, her eyes still focused on the door. Was there a latch or handle? How did one open such a door? She’d never needed to. They always slid open whenever she needed. She rapped on the wall of the coach, waiting for someone to answer.
The man started slightly at the sound but then relaxed again.
No answer.
She tried again.
Then, sliding her hands over the door until she found a latch, she pushed hard—and after a moment it swung open.
Without further thought she stepped out, ready to let the driver know exactly what she thought of such shoddy service—and with a loud yelp, promptly fell hard to her knees as her feet twisted beneath her.
There was no step. Of course there was no step—but in her life before there had always been a step, before someone had always helped her, eased her way from the height of a carriage.
Brushing the dust from her hands, she started to stand and yelped again as pain shot from her left ankle.
“What the hell?” The gravelly voice echoed from above. The man was awake and he was not happy.
Chapter Two
What was going on? Barran opened his eyes, blinked, and stared about the dimly lit interior. Why was the woman squawking like a goose? And why were they not speeding along? He’d made it very clear that he was in a hurry and was willing to pay extra if the coach made it to the next inn in time for him to acquire a new horse before nightfall.
He knew these roads well and there should be no reason for a stop. They weren’t far from some of his lands and if his leg had been in better shape he’d probably have decided . . . But his leg wasn’t in better shape and it was foolish to pretend otherwise. His thigh would never work the same as it had before a bullet had removed a large chunk of it. He could pretend that all was fine for a mile or two—or even five—but then it began to cramp and sometimes outright failed, and that was not something he was willing to face again.
Christmas in Kilts Page 29
