by Hart, Amelia
She dreaded the hours still to pass alone together, wondering what he would say and how she could reply.
She did not know what to say to him, in truth. Their whole acquaintance was out of the bounds of normal, polite behaviour. Let alone the things she had said to him when last she saw him. Yet now here he was, a knight errant, whisking her away on her quest.
She did not know whether to be coolly civil, or warmly grateful. Certainly she could not treat him badly when he was helping her. But she had let the cat out of the bag when they last spoke, referring to the auction. Pretending to be someone else had never been an effective defence. But it was all she had had. Now she had nothing.
She felt the suspense pressing down on her, urging her to say something, anything; to break this waiting silence.
If only she knew him better. She had spent so little time in the company of men, she did not have any idea what she might say in small talk, to politely paper over their awkwardness and establish a more normal interchange. She thought with a touch of hysteria that surely – surely! – she could not speak to him of the weather. And she knew nothing of hunting or horses or carriages or . . .
“This is a most excellent carriage,” she blurted out, seizing on the inspiration.
He emerged seamlessly from his introspection. “Yes, I’m very pleased by it.”
“Is it new?”
“I took delivery of it just last month, in fact.”
“It seems most elegant.” She had let her natural accent reassert itself, her voice cool, calm and clipped, the precision of the gentry in every syllable.
“It is my own design.”
“How very clever of you.” If she could access his habitual gentlemanly behaviour she might be safe. Let him only adjust his thinking to include her amongst England’s fair flower of womanhood that must be revered and protected, and perhaps he would hesitate to pursue her with his unwelcome words and touch.
He turned his gaze upon her and she thought he seemed dubious. She smiled brightly at him and tried to look as innocent and pleasant as she could manage. He narrowed his eyes in assessment and then almost visibly allowed himself to surrender to her intentions, to talk to her of polite nothings like any chance-met female acquaintance; for now at least.
Obligingly he pointed out his innovations: the space under the seat for a little quantity of luggage, the hood that nestled into the sweeping curve of the backrest, keeping them dry at this moment, and the cunning loop for resting the reins so he needn’t hold the horses still but could step down and – for instance – stow a lady’s baggage.
“Do you take up many ladies then?” she asked without thinking.
“Not usually with baggage,” he replied, his lips twitching only slightly, “other than my sister.”
“You have a sister?” She was astounded by this. He had seemed to her some darkling creation of fate, sprung up to at once rescue her from the horror of the auction, and then to be inextricably linked to that horror as they fulfilled the contract of it. Then most recently becoming her nemesis as he arrived in the neighbourhood. Not to mention the shameful fantasies her mind and body indulged in, inspired by his face and body.
The idea he might have a sister, a person with whom he shared a childhood, that he had even had a childhood, had been at one time a little boy . . . it was all quite foreign to her image of him.
She knew so astoundingly little about him. For all that she knew the taste of his mouth, the shape of his body beneath his clothes, and how astonishingly tender and sensual he could be, she knew virtually nothing of his character.
Though she had read once that one might know a man by how he treated those who were powerless against him. And if that were the measure to use, she had been in his power and he had cherished her gently, given her pleasure and been kind.
He could have used her roughly or been callous and uncaring of her. He could have been brutal or worse.
Perhaps a man more pure in heart would have set her free untouched. But then there had been a contract between them. She in turn could have pleaded with him to leave her be. It occurred to her now he might have done so had she asked. Yet she had not.
For she had not even considered a man might surrender the goods for which he had paid – and paid so handsomely – only because a woman wanted him to do so. Men did not act for the convenience of women. They simply took what they wanted, and let the devil take the hindmost.
And she had taken his money, had used it well, to get herself and Peter – and those who had helped them – to safety.
Now Peter was using the same money to run right back into danger.
She deliberately took a deep breath, and then another, relaxed her clenched fists and jaw. Mr Carstairs was saying something about his sister.
“. . . her first season. She is at a pinnacle of excitement.”
“I’d imagine so,” she murmured.
“So you are doing me a favour, allowing me to drive you to the city and leave her behind. It’s a blessing to escape from enumeration of every invitation, every gown and hat and slipper embroidered just so. I thought just being in the countryside would curtail it, but no, her recall is perfect. Every day I am treated to a litany of the gatherings she is missing, and what she would have worn had she been in town.” He shook his head in grave sorrow, and Melissa smiled slightly at this byplay. Underneath it she heard another side of him, an almost paternal fondness.
“I can’t imagine that would be of much interest to you. You are very good to indulge her.”
“I don’t lay claim to any great virtue. I sit and nod agreeably and make encouraging noises. That is quite enough for her.”
She was amused by this incongruous picture of docile masculinity. It was hard to envisage what that must be like for a girl to have a strong and benevolent man in the house who offered approval.
She wondered suddenly what he was like in a rage. Would he shout and throw things? Would he use his fists?
That was also hard to imagine, but then men were very different creatures when in their cups. There was no telling what they might do. Mr Carstairs was certainly very physically powerful. Much bigger than her father.
No, she would not trade her little Peter for a big, burly brother such as Mr Carstairs.
“I had not imagined you as a brother.”
“Had you not? How had you imagined me?” In a moment he was all seductive warmth, his hot eyes on her making her tremble and stammer.
Blast it. So much for protecting the delicate flower of her womanhood. “Oh, well I . . . you… you seem quite the sophisticate my lord. Not a family man.” Again she tried for an innocence untainted by sexual awareness, lifting her eyes to him all vapid and empty.
He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression halfway between smouldering and amused; though she could not think what might amuse him; unless it was the oddness of their conversation, in the context.
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, releasing her from the heated moment, sexual interest once more cloaked behind civility.
She found herself breathing quickly, almost a panting of mingled fright and excitement. Her nipples were hard inside her bodice.
“I don’t have much in the way of family. Stephanie and I have but the one aunt and she’s hardly the maternal type. I had the devil’s own job convincing her that bringing Steph out would add to her consequence. She is worried it will age her in the eyes of the bon ton to have an adult niece noised abroad.”
“You are indeed quite sunk in domestic matters,” murmured Melissa.
“Sunk. Yes. Not my milieu, as you say. Still I shall see her well puffed off. She’s a sweet thing and deserves the best of good husbands.”
“Someone of good breeding and comportment, I daresay.”
“I daresay,” he repeated.
Melissa looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. She couldn’t account for it, but his casual agreement hurt. Good breeding and comportment were the very last things she herself
had demonstrated since they met. That was the standard by which prospective spouses should be judged, and obviously she fell far short of the ideal.
It’s not as if the thought of marriage to him ever crossed my mind, she thought with gritted teeth. Yet no one enjoyed the knowledge they were not good enough.
All those years in Father’s house, thinking she had nothing, yet ignorant how much further there was to fall. There had been no freedom, no funds, no dowry, to be sure; but she had possessed intact reputation and acknowledged position in the world. Free to move in polite society, if not in the rarefied heights of it.
Even now there was further still to fall, frighteningly close now her financial reserves were all taken and she was threatening her livelihood by cavorting alone through the countryside with a dashing blade of the gentry.
She might never find her money or worse, Peter, then return to Bourton to find her position quite evaporated.
Not that she would care much if something dreadful had happened to Peter.
She fought the wave of desolation and despair threatening to engulf her, fought it down sternly. Instead she focused on the road spinning away so swiftly under the hooves of the horses, pulling them closer and closer to Peter. They might yet catch him, and no harm done. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
With an effort she dragged her attention back to pick up the threads of their conversation.
“Will your sister be cross at your departure?”
“I imagine so. But she will live through it. I fancy she has been much indulged lately. It is making her head swell.”
“How very unpleasant.”
“Quite.”
“When do you think we shall arrive in London?” she asked, thinking of Peter again.
“I hope we will not need to go so far. Are we not just behind him?”
“Well I . . . I don’t know, exactly. I think he left sometime late last evening.”
“And how did he go? On foot? On horseback?”
“I don’t know. Could he have gone by foot?”
“If he walked all night at a brisk pace, keeping to the road, he could make the village of Witney and take the stage from there; although if I were a young lad making a bold escape, I should hire a horse and ride hell for . . . er . . . as fast as I could. He could exchange horses at any exchanging post along the way.”
“I don’t believe he has even been astride a horse. So I hope he has not hired one,” said Melissa, with an awful picture of Peter lying cold and still in a ditch somewhere, rising in her mind’s eye.
“Can he drive a cart? Might he hire one of those? Or someone’s gig?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does he know anyone who might drive him to the city, or some part of the way?”
“Oh, I had not thought of that. I don’t know.” She knew frustratingly little, in fact. All she knew was he would make for London.
“Well, we can stop to ask questions as we go, or we can make our best possible speed and simply hope to overtake him. There are alternate roads, so we can’t be certain he is on this one.”
She had not considered that possibility. “So we might miss him and never know it?”
“It is possible. But we shall hope for better fortune than that. This is the most direct route and the Stage travels this way.”
“Then I suppose it makes sense to go straight to London,” she said slowly, quailing at the thought of such a distance travelled alone with Mr Carstairs. Not to mention a night alone in an inn with him. Or would they drive on through the night until they reached London? “I am putting you to a great deal of trouble.”
“Not so much. I had planned to be back in the city these past three days. I only stayed because I was finding the countryside so lovely.” Here he flicked her a warm glance to say exactly what part of the countryside held such appeal.
She blushed and ducked her head, forgetting for a moment she was to act oblivious to his hints. “Mr Mayhew will miss you, I’m sure.”
“He will languish in my absence, and no doubt come flying at my heels,” he said with a snort. “No, George is well used to me. We do not stand on ceremony.”
“It is very agreeable, to have such friends.”
“Yes, so it is.” He consulted a pocket watch. “Now, it is almost noon. What say you to halting at an inn at Oxford for a nuncheon? We may as well make our stop in this weather.” He nodded towards the flurries of rain beyond the shelter of the hood. “It might have passed in another half hour.”
She reluctantly murmured an assent, itching to keep driving on through the bright daylight hours without pause. But a bite to eat would not delay them long. It would also seem very strange to Mr Carstairs – and inconsiderate to him after his generous assistance – to set such a desperate pace that there was no time for a quick meal. He did not know how grave the situation was, in truth.
Chapter Sixteen
It was not long after his inquiry they entered the bounds of Oxford. He pulled into the coach yard of a large inn. It was well-tended with several hostlers seeing to the carriages, wagons and horses. A young blond lad came to hold the horses’ heads and Mr Carstairs climbed down and came around to hand Melissa out of the carriage.
She stepped briskly over the cobbles and into the inn, ready to order a meal. The maid standing in the passage swiftly sized up her plain but well cut clothes. “Can I help you, Miss?”
Suddenly it occurred to Melissa how rude it might look to Mr Carstairs to order a private room and a meal, as she had been about to do. She had no way of paying, so he must bear the cost. She hesitated.
At that moment he entered, stooping a little to clear the doorway and filling up the narrow passage with his broad shoulders and large frame.
“A private dining room and a small meal for two. And make haste. We are in a hurry.” He removed his hat and greatcoat as he spoke and the maid took them from him, hanging them on a hook and smoothing the several capes of the coat.
“The second door on your left if you please, sir.” She bobbed a respectful curtsey.
The room had an interesting outlook onto the busy street, clattering with people of all ages going about their business. Melissa moved to stand behind a chair by the window, clasping the top of it nervously. Mr Carstairs took another chair, lounging at ease and running an absent hand through the hair just released from his hat. She watched his fingers tunnelling through the thick strands and felt again that frisson of awareness, so unwelcome and persistent.
“Goodness, what a pace we have been travelling,” she babbled, trying again to be polite and proper. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your help. I was quite at a loss to know what to do next, with all my funds gone. Please be certain I shall pay you back in full once we come upon him.” She stopped, and bit her lip.
For a long moment he said nothing, merely gazed at her and tapped the fingers of his hand thoughtfully on the arm of the chair. Melissa felt her heart beat faster. When he spoke she jumped.
“I shall be most offended if you do. It is so satisfying to the soul to be a knight errant. Protecting the damsel fair.” He said it lightly, but in the heavy pause that followed she imagined he was comparing her to a pure, chaste maiden and finding the metaphor fit poorly. A grim expression had come into his eyes.
“I said to myself I would not,” he said softly, so softly she was not sure he spoke to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I would not,” he repeated, louder. “I would not press you. Nor make myself more disgusting to you with repeated advances.” He paused, as if waiting for some response. But she had nothing to say. It was this she had feared, when leaving Bourton alone with him.
“Yet you stand there, looking like . . . that . . . and I can’t . . . You puzzle me so, you know? I do not know what to make of you. Lady or seamstress, seductress or gently-reared maid. Almost in the same breath I long to protect you from your troubles, and the next to ravish you senseless. I can’t quite,”
and here he came lightly to his feet and stalked towards her as she backed hastily away, “make up my mind as to what to do with you.”
“Then do nothing,” she said hastily, groping instinctively for some sort of weapon with the hand behind her. There was only a window seat and some stuffed cushions. “There is nothing that needs doing. I need nothing. In fact I can probably find other transport. So really, truly nothing needs to be done.” He was at her side now, his hand rising towards her. He spoke as if she had never said a word:
“That sweet little seamstress? She seems such an innocent. I want to protect her; to see the fear gone from her eyes. And I think she is afraid of me. So I should not torment her; should just leave her. Or treat her like a brother would; though I do not feel at all… brotherly.” He moved even closer as he said the words. She felt his sweet breath feather her lips; the heat of his body so near hers.
“But then you have not been a seamstress today. You have been a polite young woman of quality, driven through the countryside. You really are very mysterious.”
She was terrified of what he might do next or – even worse – what she might do in response. That day in the fields had taught her to fear her own wanton nature. Even now, the awareness of him had sharpened into an excitement to have him so close, alone with her in this room.
She considered running, or lashing out physically, or calling him names again. She considered and did nothing, frozen with indecision, her breath coming fast, blood a heavy beat in her ears.
“There is such a huge gulf between these women you are. One who would sell her body and use it so very erotically and the other,” he trailed his fingertips lightly down her cheek, “who is covered in blushes like a schoolroom miss when she is barely even touched; a virtuous lady, no less.
“You see my predicament?” His fingertip moved on to her neck, where they drew delicate circles.
Thought evaporated.
“Tell me, what should I do, hmmm? Do you think that shy seamstress would like a shy kiss? Like this?” He dipped his head just far enough to slowly press a soft kiss on her mouth. Her lips parted on a sigh and her eyelids drifted closed. “Perhaps she would like to be held, like this.” He folded her into his arms, slowly, cautiously.
