by Amy Quinton
After a few moments, she seemed to give up trying to pull MacLeod out of his foul mood. She asked questions about the country and about places to visit. General chit chat. Every once in a while, she tried again—with a surprising amount of frequency—to tease MacLeod into relaxing his guard, to no avail. After an hour, she gave that up to the lost cause it was and took her leave with a: “It’s nice to meet you, Dansbury or Churchmouse, or whatever it is I should call you. It’s been very informative.”
Dansbury looked at MacLeod after she left. “I like her.”
“As do I,” Kelly chimed in.
MacLeod just chugged the remainder of his drink, his fifth since the American had joined them. His friend wasn’t known to drink so heavily, must be Mrs. Chase. But he wouldn’t call the man on it.
“Well, gentlemen. I’d best be headed upstairs.” Dansbury knew it would look odd if he left Lady Beatryce waiting too long. She was supposed to be his new bride after all. He was not anticipating seeing her. In bed. Not at all.
“Aye, ye do that. I hope ye can find her beneath that tent.” Kelly’s laughed chased him up the stairs.
* * * *
Nearby…
A fire crackled in the hearth, the only light source in the small barren room. The bulk of the space remained hidden in the shadows, but there was only a table, a chair, and a small cot in the corner to be seen anyway. The table was covered with guns and steel. A veritable weapons cache.
The chimney leaked and smoke clouded and stunk up the tiny space, but the cloaked man paid it no mind. He tilted the note in his hand toward the flames and read.
They’re staying at The Quiet Witch Pub and Inn. We’ll take them tomorrow on the road.
He smiled. Ah, yes. Excellent. Himself will be pleased. The shrouded man threw the missive in the fire and returned to the nearby table. He took up his blade. He began to sharpen it, as if it were dull and unused. It wasn’t. It was as sharp as the day it was made. It’d cut through flesh like butter.
He leered as he relished the thought of finally confronting his foe. Of seeing recognition dawn across his enemy’s face. The sound of steel scraping steel echoed around the walls. The only other sound besides the crackling fire.
Soon. It would happen. Everything was falling into place as planned. And this time, he would not be denied his revenge.
Chapter 15
“The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.”
― Marianne Moore
He stood at the door to her room. Their room. It had a deep, dark scratch at eye level. And a reasonably sized crack. And dust. Lots of dust. A tiny spider worked its way in and out of the crack, busy and oblivious to his continued regard. Ten minutes must have passed as he watched that spider work—if not twenty.
Aw, hell. What was he waiting for? He turned the handle.
It was locked?
She’d locked him out. The idea was laughable.
He could slip in and out of anywhere undetected, despite his oversized shoulders and soaring height. He pulled a knife out of his boot. It was a matter of seconds before he was standing in the middle of their room. He hadn’t made a sound to alert her to his presence.
And now he couldn’t make a sound if his life depended on it.
She was mostly covered. Mostly being the key word here. The covers had shifted with her restless sleep…And she was naked.
One hundred percent naked-as-the-day-she-was-born naked.
He could tell because her side was exposed from her toes to the top of her ice-blonde head. Alabaster skin, looking as soft as newly spun silk glowed, uninterrupted, back at him.
He wished he’d been incapable of picking the damn lock.
He wanted to go to her; he wanted to stay utterly still. A dichotomy to be sure. He locked his knees to keep from moving. But he couldn’t look away. It was as if he’d never seen a naked woman before now.
One long, trim leg was sprawled out from under the covers, seeking to cool her overheated body. The dim light cast by the fire settled over the contours of her leg, highlighting defined muscles. Her leg was athletic, slim, and strong, unusual for a woman.
Had he mentioned that he liked unusual before?
And she must be burning up under the covers, for the room was surely aflame.
He pulled at his cravat. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wondered why the room was suddenly quite warm despite the chill outside. He wanted nothing more than to bury his head in a bucket of snow.
She shifted in her sleep. The covers slid a little more. And he grew envious of the bedclothes, draped so languidly over her naked curves.
But that wasn’t what really captivated him. Held his attention as sure as chains tied to his eyeballs. Now. Oh, hell, now, one perfectly shaped breast was exposed to the air; one tight nipple puckered and pointing. At him. Begging him to sup.
His legs buckled. Thank God there was a chair behind him or he’d be sprawled on the floor. And how would he explain that? For the sound of his massive body hitting the floor would certainly wake her…and everyone else in the inn for that matter. He wiped a hand down his face.
She whimpered in her sleep. He couldn’t tell if it was a whine of distress or a lusty moan. In his sex-addled brain, he went with the latter.
And before he knew what he was about, he was crawling on the bed, zeroed in on her nipple. He leaned in, and his tongue tingled, ready to flick the tip. What would one taste hurt? Or one quick suckle? He could feel it now, soft and pebbled on his tongue. Would she taste sweet like chocolate? Or earthy, like her natural scent.
Hell…He. Knew. Her. Scent.
He closed his eyes and froze. He was afraid to breathe lest he lose his remaining self-control. His shaft throbbed in his trousers. Pulsated and ached. He wanted more than anything to take himself in hand to relieve the pressure. It wouldn’t take long. He’d been up and down in lust today, an emotional whirlwind. He opened his eyes and without conscious thought, homed in on her exposed breast. Hell, he wouldn’t need to touch himself; he was going to explode just by staring at her nipple, tight and erect and begging for his attentions.
What the hell was he doing? He fisted the sheet and used every bit of his self-control to rein in his unwanted desire. It wasn’t easy. Ha, an understatement that. He was on the edge. He fought and kicked his way back from the brink.
He searched his brain for a memory, any thought to put things in perspective. He found one, the memory of when he first saw her. The one where Middlebury had touched her intimately on the terrace for all the world to see. The one where she and Middlebury had discussed ruining an innocent woman as casually as if they were discussing the weather.
That did it. He reaffirmed his vow. He refused to be taken in by her. No matter how sexy…
He didn’t finish the thought. He just backed off the bed with cautious intent. It wouldn’t do to wake her now. He stood and embraced his disgust. It made him ill to know such an unconscionable person lived in such a beautiful package. What a load of rubbish, vile and smelly.
He turned on his heel and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him…no longer bothering to be silent.
Lady Beatryce opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Chapter 16
“The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.”
― Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well
On the Road Again…
The Next Morning…
Beatryce looked over at her traveling companion. They had left behind The Quiet Witch Inn early that morning, before the sun rose and the rooster crowed. It was freezing out and she wrapped herself within the spacious confines of her oversized dress. It actually provided a surprising measure of warmth. It was cozy, once her nose got used to the smell. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the memory of the stench for as long as she lived.
Dansbury glared
out the window as she considered his profile, their roles reversed from their journey the day before. His arms were folded across his chest and his legs were stretched out and crossed at his booted feet. He was angry, that much was obvious, and contemplative. His blond hair was disheveled and partially covering his face, enhancing his agitated look.
“You’re angry,” she said. It wasn’t a question, but an observation. And she didn’t understand her reasoning behind why she felt the need to say it out loud which was quite unlike her.
“I’m not used to being around the same person, day in and day out, twenty-four hours a day. And it’s you. Of course, I’m irritated. Why aren’t you?” He wasted no time responding. As if he’d been waiting for her to break the silence. As if he was eager to inform her of how much she annoyed him.
She ignored his question, braced herself as their carriage dipped over another pothole, and asked one of her own. “Where is the charming man everyone raves about? I never see him.”
The coach windows rattled their panes.
He snorted. “I lock him away when you’re around. It’s called self-preservation.”
“Self-preservation? Ha. You, my friend, are afraid. What are you afraid of, Dansbury?”
“You…” He winced. It looked as if he meant to say more, but chose not to. Clearly, he hadn’t wanted to admit that much.
She was surprised by his confession. Her heart picked up its pace, and she felt anxious of a sudden, but she hid it well. She twisted her hands in the folds of her overgrown dress, a nervous gesture that wasn’t hers by habit.
She attempted to sound light-hearted and unconcerned when she teased, “La, Dansbury, that is the most honest thing you’ve said to me since we started out on this misbegotten adventure. I’m flattered.”
She didn’t think he noticed the slight tremble to her voice. For some unknown reason, she was on the verge of laughing like a nervous bedlamite. A strange quagmire of emotions entangled her mind and her normally well-ordered thoughts.
“Yea, and what happened to the silent ice queen I started out with—I want her back.”
“Why? Scared I’ll make you confess your darkest secrets…your innermost desires?” She added a sultry twist to the end of that question. God, she was discovering just how much she loved to bait him. She relished it.
“No. I just don’t like the man I am when I’m with you.”
“Charmer.” She emphasized sarcasm while she suppressed a sudden pang of hurt. Following on the heels of nervous anticipation, the change in emotion was jarring. It was not like she hadn’t worked hard for his animosity—she knew she’d earned it. And she still didn’t regret it. Much.
“You keeping quiet helps. Less chance of you making me angry. Less chance of me doing something I—you’ll regret.”
Beatryce considered his admission. It didn’t escape her notice that he had started to say “I” before he switched to “You”. How could she use this knowledge to her advantage? He wasn’t the only one with a heightened instinct for self-preservation.
Sure, she’d been aloof and contemplative before—her father had just been murdered. It would have been odd not to be somewhat respectful to his memory. No matter that he was a bastard of the worst kind and everyone knew it. No matter that she was pleased he was dead. Did that make her a bad person? She didn’t think so; he was the devil’s own.
And her silence worked as a way for her to analyze her situation with Dansbury and determine how to handle their enforced proximity. It was a calculated move on her part.
Not to mention that she’d been angry and bitter—life wasn’t fair, especially for her, it seemed.
After a moment’s consideration, she decided to change tactics. “How do you see this all playing out? Are we going to just travel merrily along to our destination, and then remain hidden until someone tells us it is safe to come out? Are you just going to leave me?”
Their eyes locked as she choked out those last words. Her throat tightened and cut off her remaining words, at the thought of him leaving her alone. She couldn’t even swallow. It was an unexpected feeling coming from her. She was stronger than that. She did not need anyone.
His gaze softened for a moment. “I don’t know. Surprisingly, I don’t have all the answers. I only know that justice will prevail in the end.”
“La, how do you know? Sometimes bad guys win.” She looked at her white-knuckled hands, afraid he’d see the sudden fear in her eyes she couldn’t easily hide. Her experiences told her that the bad guys quite often won.
He leaned across and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “No. They can’t. I won’t allow it. Might makes right. Surely, you of all people hold with that sentiment. You were prepared to do anything to get away from your father. Well. I will do whatever it takes to make sure justice is served. Even…”
He didn’t finish that thought. Beatryce was glad. She didn’t like the sudden look in his eye, and thus, she did not want to know what he was prepared to do to see justice served.
It wasn’t like him. Sure, he looked at her that way, but he wasn’t really thinking of her at the moment, that much was obvious. For the first time, she considered just how formidable a man he could be. He had the potential to be dark. Ferocious. Dangerous. Though she didn’t think he realized it. And she knew nobody else saw it, either. But then, she remembered the cloaked man’s written taunt. PS: Tell Dansbury, I know his secrets.
What could this man be hiding?
Whatever it was, she suspected it haunted him.
She ignored the voice that screamed how much she might like dark. And she made a mental note not to push him past his limits. She decided to pull him back to the light, out of his shadowy mental hole. Otherwise, he’d make the day long and miserable, and she just wasn’t up to another day like that.
She leaned toward him and placed her hand on his thigh. A well-muscled, surprisingly hot and hard appendage that. “Cliff.”
“Don’t you dare call me Cliff!” He swiped her hand away on an unexpected growl. She nearly fell face first into his lap as her support was knocked from beneath her. His voice was a roaring bellow. Gone was the caring, empathetic demeanor from just a moment before.
He rose and reached for her as if he intended to shake her or worse, when the glass of the carriage’s rear window shattered.
“Bea. Get down. Now!” he yelled.
Several more shots were fired into the wooden walls of the carriage as Dansbury dropped to the floor and flipped up the cushion of his seat. Good God, they had a small armory inside that seat.
He grabbed two pistols and peeked out the rear window. Both guns were already primed and ready to fire. Within the trunk lay all manner of additional weapons, including prepared shells and the tools to prime the remaining guns.
Beatryce didn’t think, she grabbed two and readied them, tamping them down so they’d fire correctly. As soon as Dansbury fired his, he dropped them to the floor. She immediately replaced them with her two. He never once looked down. Somehow, someway, she anticipated his needs without direction from him. They worked in concert as if they’d done so for years. As if she read his mind. As if he had confidence in her ability to do so.
Dansbury ducked as a shot nearly clipped his ear and imbedded itself in the front wall of the coach.
Beatryce’s heart leapt in response.
Three more shots followed before Dansbury peeked up, aimed, and let fly his next two. He dropped his guns and grabbed the next two she’d prepped while he took aim. He started to duck down, jerked back up for one last look, and ducked down again.
More shots rang out in rapid succession.
There must be more than one man shooting. Four, if Beatryce had to guess. She didn’t dare look to be sure. Besides, she had a job to do there on the floor.
They continued on this way, shots volleying, guns dropped and replaced, for what felt like hours, but was only a handful of minutes, before Dansbury leaned back against her seat, hands dangling over his
raised knees. Finished.
Guns littered the floor; they’d run through half their store.
Dansbury released a breath of relief. “They’re gone. We got one. But the others, three more of them, fled into the woods.”
“Why aren’t we stopping?”
“My man knows not to stop for any reason short of death. It’s too dangerous. We carry on until we reach safety.” He suddenly looked at her. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt?”
“Yes. No. I’m fine.”
He searched her face, for what she didn’t know. She didn’t break the connection.
He smiled then and her gut twisted. He’d never smiled at her before, happy with whatever he’d found in her eyes. Not like that.
“You did well, Lady Beatryce. Thank you.” He reached out as if he were going to caress her cheek, but then jerked his hand back, fist clenched.
No. No. No. No.
She wouldn’t let him back away from that. She launched herself across his lap, straddling his legs. She grabbed his head and kissed him for all she was worth, her adrenaline firing her passion and making her reckless.
He kissed her back. But his hands remained steady and gripping her sides. He nearly hurt her, he was clutching her so fiercely about the waist.
Her dress billowed all around, hiding them from the world. She scrambled for his trousers, intending to unbutton them and free his erection. He wanted her; she wanted him. The danger had passed. They were free to indulge.
But he grabbed her wrists and broke away. “Beatryce, I never become intimate with someone under my protection. I’m funny that way.”
“I can protect myself.” She kissed his face between words.
“Sure, love, then let me put it another way. I don’t fuck people I don’t like.”
That got her attention. She was quick to change strides. “Such language. Seems out of character for you, at least that’s what I hear. Must have touched a sore spot,” she said between kisses.
She was confident in her charms. She nipped at his lips.
He kissed her back despite words to the contrary. “No. Just speaking the truth.”
