She leaned over his sleeping body—to be sure he was covered in the front—and witnessed a contented smile. Her stomach clenched, and the previous evening’s events returned in embarrassing clarity. Among her recollections was a scorching one of their near kiss.
I am supposed to be betrothed to Lord Newgate, and here I am kissing another man!
This had gone too far. She backed away and scurried to the safety of her bed, though once there, memories of their evening together resurfaced. Never before had she spent a more agreeable evening. Though she had monopolized the conversation, he was an attentive listener and did not hesitate to interrupt her to add his own opinion or viewpoint. While more sober than she was accustomed to, he had a dry sense of humor and was not above poking fun at himself if the occasion called for it. Truth be told, he had directed his dry wit at her on more than one occasion, and she found she enjoyed being teased by the “almost always serious” Mr. Alfred T. Coombes.
In fact, she liked him, but a union between the two of them was not possible. She threw herself onto her back. “This will not do. I am to marry Lord Newgate, not Mr. Coombes.”
For some reason, the idea saddened her, but she set it aside. In spite of her recent worries that a match with Lord Newgate was inadvisable, a match with Mr. Coombes was even more unsuitable. Her father would never allow her to marry a mere solicitor.
Besides, it is a simple infatuation and will disappear as soon as I walk down the aisle and become Lady Newgate.
Or at least so she hoped.
Evening faded and dawn replaced the murky dusk with gloomy daylight. She was awake and had a plan. This time she would not fail. Ignoring her slumbering travel companion, she dug through her bag until she found what she needed. Once seated at the table in her room, with all romantic fantasies of Alfred almost stifled, she wrote.
Dear Alex,
The most astonishing thing has happened to me.
By the time she had finished writing her letter, guests moved below. Donning a day dress and her boots, she hurried downstairs to post her letter before she missed the day’s delivery.
“I see you made it through the evening in one piece,” Mrs. Olin said. “You and the husband made up, did you?”
Mrs. Olin’s comment confused her until she remembered the story Alfred had told her. She stayed silent and let their hostess draw her own conclusions about last night’s events.
“I came up several times last night to listen at the door and to be sure no harm had come to you, but you two were chattering away each time I checked. Except for the last time I come. All was quiet, and I figured you and the mister had retired for the evening.” She sent her a knowing look and a bright red flush stained Evie’s cheeks. Mrs. Olin cackled in delight.
“He told me you two were newlywed, but I didn’t realize how newlywed you were!” Mrs. Olin laughed louder at her own humor while Evie stood in silent indignation, knowing anything she said now would be taken the wrong way.
When her laughter had dwindled, Mrs. Olin said, “He must have convinced you a honeymoon in the country is much safer than traipsing all over France during a war.” She stuck a pudgy finger in her face and waggled it back and forth. “I don’t know what was going on in your pretty head, little lady. It seems your husband has more sense than you do, though, so you’d be wise to hold on to him.”
Fuming from Mrs. Olin’s jab at her intellect, Evie silenced a ready retort.
And what of your intellect, madam? Did you bother asking Alfred for proof we were married? She restrained her anger, because Alfred had risked both their reputations to secure her safety. Besides, trying to interject a word into this conversation was proving to be futile. She forced a smile and waited for Mrs. Olin to finish her unkind assessment of her character and mental capacity.
“Now, what can I do for you? You want me to post your letter?” she asked, noticing the envelope in her hand.
She opened her mouth and…nothing. No words came forth. Not a sound or a syllable or even a squeak. Panic lodged in her throat.
“Can’t you speak?”
Blinking back tears, she shook her head.
“Why, I heard you plain as day last evening. What happened? Are you sick?”
Again, she shook her head.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Olin eyed her much like one would a disease-ridden beggar, until suspicion shone in her beady little eyes. “Oh-ho!” she laughed. “Your man wore out your voice last night when he took you to bed, didn’t he?” She gave another belly laugh and licked her lips. “I knew when I saw him he would be long in the bed.” Mrs. Olin held her hands out a fair distance from each other and winked at her. Though she was reeling from her lack of speech, she was still enough in charge of her senses to comprehend what Mrs. Olin meant regarding Alfred’s—the size of his—
Thrusting the letter into Mrs. Olin’s hands, she retreated up the stairs. The sound of the landlady’s lewd laughter followed not far behind.
Heedless of his slumber, she entered the room and slammed the door behind her, using the solid wooden portal to support her trembling limbs. She closed her eyes to stem the mounting panic threatening to cut off her airway. Her lips trembled. “Hush, Evie, hush.” The familiar cadence did little to soothe her rattled nerves.
The awful choking panic overtook her, and crippling fear forced her to her knees. She sank to the floor and sobbed.
Chapter 7
They sat together on the banks of a large pond. The remnants of a picnic lay scattered about their feet, and the two lounged on the grass. Her small head rested on his chest. A gentle breeze fluttering the leaves of the tree overhead played with the pale curls on her head, sending the soft tendrils to tickle his cheeks and nose. He swiped at the errant strands with their entwined fingers and growled, pretending to bite the hand lingering near his mouth. His playful efforts earned him a sweet giggle, so he redoubled his efforts and plied her fingers with ardent nibbles. Her laughter soon turned to soft moans as mischievous nips became seductive, and he pressed slow, tender kisses to the underside of her wrist and arm.
She shivered and raised her head from his chest to stare at him, a brilliant blue fire lighting her eyes. Though a light pink dusted her cheekbones at the familiarity of his caress, she did not demur. No, his lady met his heated gaze with a provocative one of her own, a challenge he was all too willing to accept.
He raised himself on an elbow and hardened as she slid her arms up and around his chest. He wrapped his arms about her waist, pulled her against his body, and lowered his mouth to hers. A noise, much like the buzzing of a fly, tickled his ear. He shook his head to dislodge the sound, but it intensified. Desperate to be rid of the now incessant clamor, he released his hold on her and clasped his head between his hands, hoping to muffle the racket taking him away from this fantasy world.
It was no use. The cry would not be ignored.
With reluctance, he surfaced from his dream and found the turbulence invading his sleep continued inside the room. Jumping from his pallet, he scanned the room for the source of the sound, hoping to silence it before it awakened his sleeping companion. When he spied the disheveled bedcovers and the vacant bed, panic squeezed his chest at the lady’s absence. He scoured the room again until he spied her crumpled body near the door.
She lay curled on her side, knees drawn into her chest, and she rocked back and forth. Pain etched its horrible lines on her face. The terrible cry heard in his dream was coming from between her pale, trembling lips.
“My lady! What’s wrong?” He rushed to her and examined her body for injury. There was none. Her attire was the sole change from the previous evening; she no longer wore her wrapper but had donned a day dress and boots.
“Did you go downstairs?” The sobbing increased.
What has happened to her? He recalled the leering faces of the rowdy travelers from last evening and feared the worst. If one of those big bruisers have injured her in any way…
His fists balled
at his sides, the sharp press of his nails digging into the flesh of his palm. Anger replaced reason as he contemplated what to do to those who had harmed this woman.
Her sobs quieted into pained whimpers, and he calmed his boiling rage. Anger served no purpose at the moment. Something had frightened her, and he needed to figure out what had happened.
“Did someone hurt you?”
Great, gulping sobs wracked her body, convulsing her tiny frame with their ferocity.
Crying women made him uncomfortable and rendered him all but useless.
“You need to stop crying, or you’ll make yourself sick or rouse the other guests.”
She did not comply, and his level of anxiety rose in direct proportion to the intensity of her sobs.
Desperation encouraged imprudence, but no other ideas presented themselves. “I’m going to carry you to the bed, so you can tell me what happened.”
He gathered her into his arms and supported himself against the headboard. Her weight rested on his lap. Stroking her head, he smoothed the tangles of wispy hair away from her face and dried her eyes with his handkerchief. “Hush, Evie, hush,” he whispered until her sobs quieted and ceased. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
She shivered and pulled her legs into her chest, making her body as small and tight as possible. Visible tremors radiated from her coiled limbs, and a memory of his younger brother resurfaced. He, too, had experienced debilitating terrors which locked him inside a horrifying, painful world. After their father had died, they worsened, his young screams echoing throughout the house as he struggled to free himself from whatever fears haunted his dreams. He had tried everything to calm him and ease his burden. Nothing worked until one night he took him on his lap and massaged his tensed muscles. Within minutes, he relaxed and slipped into a more peaceful slumber.
While he and Lady Evelyn had a closer acquaintance than most, he hesitated before laying hands upon her. It might prove difficult to explain what he was doing, should she awaken and find him massaging her arms and legs. She moaned, and he ignored the small voice warning him to keep as far away from this woman as possible. With trembling fingers, he stroked her arms. When she didn’t scream or push him away, he deepened his touch and dug into her tense muscles. Several minutes passed before the tremors abated and her legs relaxed from their tight confinement.
Her slight body sprawled across his lap, and her golden head slumped onto his torso. Bleary blue eyes blinked open. “I was so scared.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t speak. I tried, but I couldn’t do it.” Her eyes closed, and she went limp, falling into sleep’s healing oblivion.
He was stuck. There were worse places to be than under a sleeping woman’s soft curves, but he didn’t know what to do. She lay across much of his body, and a quick glance to his pocket watch confirmed it was almost time to board the coach. Today their journey ended, and if they managed to board the coach on time, she’d arrive at her uncle’s in Hasselworth before nightfall. He planned on dropping her at the door and continuing to Southampton, where a ship awaited.
Yet Evie needs tending. How can I leave her alone and unprotected?
He hated indecision, and ever since making her acquaintance, he had been plagued by it. Leaving England and protecting her were incompatible desires, and they waged a fierce war, pitting his need to be successful against his hunger to make this woman his own. Not for the first time since meeting her he cursed Fate for throwing them together.
But if she had taken a different coach, or if I’d left later, we’d never have met.
The very idea left him depressed and hollow. In their brief acquaintance, she’d become important to him. Though he wasn’t ready to examine how important, leaving her was not possible. “I will have to travel to Hasselworth and deliver her to her uncle and aunt myself. My voyage will keep.”
He expected some disappointment—after all, he had awaited this adventure for years—yet none came. Later, he’d examine why, but now he had a job to do. After extricating himself from underneath her sprawled body, he dispatched his morning ablutions and rummaged through his portfolio until he located the items he required. Once seated at the small table, he wrote.
Lord Stanton,
It is my duty to inform you of several events occurring recently involving your new sister-in-law.
Within minutes, he had finished composing his letter to his former employer, detailing the circumstances of her hurried flight from London to her uncle’s in Hasselworth. Satisfied the letter contained an accurate description of his role as her unwitting travel companion turned protector, he signed his name and took the letter down below to be posted.
Once back above stairs, he packed their few belongings, gathered his sleeping charge into his arms, and walked below to board the coach.
****
The carriage rolled over a bump, and he turned from the window to glance at the opposite seat, where Evie still slept. They had boarded the coach five hours ago, and she had yet to move from the position in which he had arranged her. At first he feared some harm had befallen her during her crying fit, because she was so still, but the regular movements of her chest eased his worries, and he ceased checking to see if she lived. She must be a deep sleeper, and he worried no more about her strange immobility.
However, the large jolt had jarred her, and she was in danger of falling onto the coach floor. He didn’t want her to harm herself, so he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her still sleeping body, securing her once more to the safety of her temporary bed. He was pulling back to return to his seat when two arms wound their way around his neck and a small head found a place on his shoulder.
She mumbled into his neck, and he strained to hear. Is she calling my name? But when he looked into her face, her eyes remained closed in sleep.
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Please, release me.”
“No. Kiss me.”
He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath. It would be so easy, too, to shift his head to the left and take the kiss he so desired, but no gentleman made love to an unconscious woman.
“Evie, you’re sleeping.” He tried to untangle her hands where they had burrowed into the hair at the back of his neck, but she tightened her hold.
His heart thrummed a frantic beat in his chest when blue eyes met his own, but her words caused his palms to dampen and his mouth to dry out.
“I’m not sleeping. Kiss me, please.”
Chapter 8
She oughtn’t to have asked Mr. Coombes to kiss her, but there had been no way around it. He was to blame, too, and she’d been forced to take drastic measures. Why did he instruct Mr. Coachman to go directly to my uncle’s in Hasselworth and not to Southampton as I wished? Mr. Coombes, it seemed, took his role as protector with a seriousness she had not expected, and he had declared travel to France impossible without first stopping to see her aunt and uncle.
How she had wished to give him a piece of her mind, but when he’d been making the arrangements, she had been recovering from her fright at the inn and unable to verbalize much of anything. Plus the vexing man had scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a newborn kitten and held her close to him as he changed her travel plans and rearranged her schedule with little regard for her desires. She had tried to be irritated with him, but her frustration was slow to build, given how content she was while nestled in his arms. Yet another reason to be annoyed with him. How dare he make her at ease!
She was foolish and knew it. Some might call it irrational, but as a woman, and a gently bred lady, it was her prerogative to behave as she wished, or so she told herself when others deemed her behavior inappropriate. That her moods fluctuated from one moment to the next was neither here nor there. Before boarding the coach, she had wished to see her uncle and aunt. Now she did not. Her uncle, Lord Kendrick Atwood, and his esteemed wife, Lady Diane Atwood, would discourage her voyage, and she was determined to go.
She had explained to Mr. Coombes the importance of her journey and her desire to avoid Atwood Manor. He had acted as though he respected her wishes; however, his words to the driver not only confirmed he was as arrogant as the next man but that he presumed he had any say over where she would or would not go. Stuck in a carriage going to Hasselworth, she had no way to alter her current course.
The carriage ride provided her with ample opportunity to ponder this new dilemma. Feigning lethargy was nothing new to her; she often employed this tactic when she wished to be undisturbed. Once settled on the seat, she carried out the ruse of continued insensibility. It took all her concentration to remain motionless as if asleep, and several times she almost sat up, wishing to stretch her cramped muscles and relieve the accompanying boredom continued silence demanded. She was resolute. For her plan to succeed, she needed to board a ship sailing to France. Though she knew Mr. Coombes doubted her sanity at the idea, it was imperative she find the gypsy who had cursed her. She’d be free to marry Lord Newgate, and her little infatuation with Mr. Coombes would be a faded memory of the past.
The carriage rolled over a bump, and she curled her fingers under her to remain stationary. She needn’t have worried; a warm hand braced against her arm while another slipped under her legs, securing her to the seat once more. She concentrated on pulling in a deep, slow lungful of air, a difficult feat when Mr. Coombes’s presence caused her traitorous heart to pitter-patter inside her chest.
He overwhelmed her senses. The fabric of his coat rasped against her arm, provoking the tiny hairs to rise. She suppressed a shiver and wavered in her resolve to deceive him. He was a nice man and had shown her nothing but kindness. Too bad she had a plan, and she never gave up on a plan. This one was a good one, too, and she was confident of her success. She was going to convince the coachman to drive her to Southampton without her escort’s knowledge. To ensure her plans remained secret, she had to encourage him into a deep sleep, and she knew how to guarantee the drowsiness she required. His presence by her seat gave her the confidence to proceed. Now was the perfect moment to act.
Silence Is Golden Page 6
