Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  She heard the tremor in her own voice as she clumsily repeated what the blacksmith instructed. By the way his blue eyes turned stormy, so did Owen. Then their convenient anvil priest smiled at his paltry congregation.

  ‘For as much as this man and this woman have consented to go together by giving and receiving a ring, I therefore declare them to be man and wife before God and these witnesses. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.’ The blacksmith and the witnesses beamed at them. ‘Amen.’

  Lydia saw Owen’s Adam’s apple bob as he stared straight ahead and realised she was struggling to swallow herself now the sheer enormity of what they had done was only just beginning to sink it. But his hand wrapped around hers was sure and steady. Comforting. Safe.

  Safe? Where had that come from when only a moment ago she had thought him ruthless? Yet safe was what she felt and bizarrely relieved, although what about she had no earthly clue.

  ‘Now comes the bit when you kiss her.’ The smithy nudged the groom and all at once a veil of dense awkwardness descended. Owen hesitated, blinked and then, as if he was only doing it on sufferance and would rather be doing absolutely anything else instead, bent to kiss her. Although it was so quick and the contact so minimal it hardly constituted a kiss at all and once again Lydia was strangely disappointed, acknowledging to herself she had always revelled in his kisses before and had perhaps been anticipating doing so again. Nobody had ever kissed her like Owen Wolfe.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Another icy droplet of rain found its way under Owen’s collar and trickled painfully down his spine to join its companions already gathered in the waistband of his now sodden breeches. It had been pouring since sunset, which meant it had been pouring for at least four hours already and the angry storm clouds which periodically gave him a brief glimpse of the full moon suggested the rain wasn’t likely to stop any time soon.

  Ahead, his two loyal coachmen were hunched in their own greatcoats uncomplaining, although they were undoubtedly soaked to the skin exactly as he was. So far, he had made them drive past five cosy-looking inns which were perfect to spend the night in. He didn’t have the heart to make them drive past the one looming in the distance, no matter how much he wanted to. It wasn’t fair to make them plough through the night just so he could avoid it. Because this wasn’t just any old night.

  This was his wedding night.

  And wedding nights usually promised certain things.

  But there was no putting off what was undoubtedly going to be one very awkward conversation any longer. Fate was conspiring with the elements against him, and his begrudging bride hadn’t been able to stretch her shapely legs in hours.

  Resigned, yet still dreading it, he kicked his horse on ahead and flagged the coachman to pull in, feeling like a coward for hoping this particular inn was miraculously full and he would be granted a reprieve of another few hours more.

  But of course it wasn’t, because nobody in their right mind traversed the Great North Road this late at night in the middle of November in a deluge.

  Before his carriage rattled into the stable yard, Owen sought out the innkeeper and paid in advance for the three rooms. One for his men and one each for himself and his new wife.

  ‘Coming back from Gretna, are you?’

  Owen nodded curtly, in no mood to make conversation.

  ‘We get a lot of honeymooners here.’ The man grinned knowingly as he handed him the keys. ‘Fear not—’ He wiggled his bushy eyebrows for good measure as he slapped Owen on the back. ‘The beds are sturdy, my friend. Even with a big fellow like you…’

  As he said this, Lydia came in and paused mid-step, her eyes widening at the comment she had quite clearly overheard. Owen knew exactly what she was thinking. It was along the same lines of what the innkeeper was thinking, and probably his men, too.

  The wedding night.

  Which was most definitely not going to happen.

  Owen had assumed as much days ago when she had informed him the thought of merely his touch made her sick to her stomach. Such an emphatic declaration had hardly boded well for unbridled passion. Rather than imagining a stoic and reluctant Lydia tolerating the unseemly intrusion, it had been easier to blot the spectre of the marriage bed out of his mind to mentally reinforce the terms of their original agreement. A public facade and complete private avoidance.

  But then he had stood beside her at the anvil, felt her squeeze his hand, felt the air around them shift. To his complete surprise, he hadn’t needed to choke the damn vows out at all because in that charged and surreal moment he suddenly meant them. Each and every one of them! For a few ethereal seconds, as they stared at one another, hand in hand, it was as if fate had brought them full circle to exactly where they were always meant to be. Together. Undoubtedly nearly a decade too late and by the most convoluted route possible, but they were there and that was all that mattered.

  Then he had watched her expression change from a little overwhelmed to downright petrified and he realised she did not feel at all the same way about their union. To her he was still the heartless thief and would likely never forgive him for the crimes she was convinced he had committed. If anything, and to confirm his suspicion, she had looked ready to run before her blasted duty to her feckless family forced her into staying. At best, she was marrying him on sufferance. A harsh reality not dissimilar to being plunged headlong into an ice bath and all at once he had felt both foolish and furious. Enraged at the inexplicable hold she held over him and how easily he could still be bewitched when he was around her.

  What an idiot! What a huge mess! And now they were stuck with each other. Her with the utmost reluctance and him more than a little bit devastated at that insurmountable fact. If only he had the evidence. The undeniable proof she had asked for…? His teeth ground together as the usual anger simmered, because evidence or no, she should have believed him.

  ‘Can I fetch you both a bit of supper?’ The innkeeper smiled at Lydia who only stared back, her feet rooted to the spot like a fox caught in the light of a lantern. ‘There’s some stew left and perhaps even enough of my wife’s meat pie to share between the two of you.’

  ‘Either would be good,’ Owen answered for her. A meal delayed the awkwardness. Sitting across the table from her in view of the few intrepid evening drinkers who were propping up the bar gave him somewhere impersonal to reassure her he wouldn’t be darkening her door tonight or any time soon. As much as he would love to scratch the itch which seemed to constantly plague him, he couldn’t bear the thought of scratching it like this. The guilt would destroy him.

  So he would tell her straight she was off the hook. With a potential audience there would be no scene. No histrionics or impassioned declarations. The conversation would need to be conducted in quiet voices with the minimum of fuss. Dispassionate and impersonal and thoroughly depressing. He would instigate it, be matter-of-fact and he would pretend he could not see the sheer relief at the reprieve he had tossed her despite just the thought of it being unsettling to him.

  ‘Then I shall fetch it right this minute.’

  The innkeeper scurried off and Owen took himself to the most private-looking of the tables near the window. He pulled out a chair for her and felt himself wince when she walked slowly towards it like a condemned man on the way to the gallows.

  Lydia sat primly on the very edge of her seat, her knees pressed together tightly as if protecting her virtue already from his perverse and base urges. Part of him wanted to shout at the implied insult because while he might well have a great many overwhelming urges where she was concerned, he could damn well control them and shame on her to even think he couldn’t. Another part wanted to reassure her everything was going to be all right, to vanquish, then extinguish the abject fear he could see shining in her widened eyes and make her feel better.

  Always the rescuer, just as Randolph said. Sometimes Owen hated that innate tra
it which ran so strong in him that even the harsh existence in Antipodes couldn’t knock it out.

  ‘I suppose there are a few important matters we still need to discuss.’ God, this was awful. His throat was dry, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. ‘Some parameters and logistics…’ He sounded like an engineer planning a new bridge or an umpire at a cricket match. ‘What I mean is…’

  ‘Your dinner is upstairs waiting for you!’ The innkeeper seemed to appear out of nowhere and for some inexplicable reason his announcement made him stare at the battered wood of the tabletop willing the food to appear here where he had planned to nonchalantly choke it down.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It is being laid out as we speak in your private dining room, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t order a private dining room.’ The very last thing he wanted was a private dining room or any other private room come to that which also happened to have her in it.

  ‘It is part of your suite.’

  ‘I didn’t order a suite either.’

  ‘You most definitely did, sir.’ The smile was a tad patronising this time, tinged with annoyance. ‘Two rooms for you and your new lady wife.’

  ‘When I requested two rooms…’ Several of the intrepid drinkers stopped staring into their flagons to watch the entertainment, making Owen’s toes curl inside his boots as he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I meant two bedrooms.’

  The innkeeper’s patronising smile gave way to one of pity as he focused his gaze on the wide-eyed bride and then slowly back to what he feared was an equally wide-eyed groom. ‘Well, isn’t that a novel request…what with you both fresh from Gretna and all.’ Then to Owen’s complete mortification, he decided to offer them some sage marital advice in the loudest whisper ever known to man.

  ‘It’s only natural to be nervous, Mr and Mrs Wolfe—but delaying it ’tis only going to make the nerves worse now, isn’t it? Why don’t I send up a bottle of good brandy to go with yer dinner? Help you both to ease into the proceedings…’

  As Owen willed the floor to open up and his brain to come up with a suitable response which did not leave him looking like either a pathetic specimen of a man who couldn’t do what was expected or a lust-fuelled clod who had clearly put the fear of the Almighty into his blushing bride, he saw two of the intrepid drinkers abandon their stools to edge nearer. The openly curious men made no secret of the fact they were eavesdropping and were positioning themselves to spectate properly on his utter humiliation, expressions of curious anticipation written all over their weather-beaten faces.

  ‘Or I have some sherry if the lady prefers it? Not that there is anything wrong with a man drinking the stuff, too, if that’s what pleases ye…’

  ‘Just the dinner will suffice.’ Owen had had quite enough of being thoroughly emasculated in public. With a mortifying screech, he pushed his chair from the table and grabbed Lydia’s hand. ‘Come, Wife!’

  Come, Wife? What sort of thing was that to say? He winced as he tugged her towards the stairs, forcing himself not to take the blasted things two at a time in his desire to escape. Worse, if indeed things could get worse, his enormous hands couldn’t muster the ability to open the door properly once they got to it. The two spectators were now stationed at the foot of the stairs grinning as he fumbled with the blasted latch—which meant he practically flung it at the wall in his bid to open the damn thing when it finally gave way. The door responded by hitting the plaster with a resounding crash which punctuated the brittle silence spectacularly to further entertain the amused patrons below, who made no attempt to muffle their laughter in the slightest.

  He stalked in, only to see the slightly stunned but smiling face of what he assumed was the innkeeper’s wife as she placed down the last plate of steaming vegetables on an intimate table set for two. The only candles lit in the room came from a pretty candelabrum set just off from the middle of the table, leaving the besotted newlyweds ample space to gaze adoringly at one another across the lace tablecloth and even hold hands if they had a mind to.

  ‘Will you be wanting me to bring up some dessert later, sir?’

  ‘No!’ He practically barked it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Then I shall bid you both goodnight…’

  The woman glanced back over her shoulder to the wide-open door of the bedchamber beyond with a grin. The big, sturdy canopied bed dominated the space, mocking him, the covers neatly turned down on each side of the mattress in case they were too overcome with passion to have the wherewithal to manage that themselves.

  ‘I’ve already turned down the covers.’

  She winked at him as she breezed past and then, to Owen’s horror, did the same to Lydia before pulling the door closed with an ominous click.

  Keen to take back control of the situation, while slowly dying on the inside, he found himself marching into the bedchamber and snatching up a pillow, then wrestled off one stubborn blanket, before marching back and tossing them both decisively on the floor next to the table.

  ‘I’ll sleep in here!’

  Her only reaction was to blink. ‘On the floor?’

  ‘I’ve slept on worse!’ Because he was still nowhere near in control of his emotions, he heard himself clarify the arrangement with extreme belligerence. ‘And I shall spare you the need to barricade yourself in, madam! I have no desire to visit your bed, Lydia! Not tonight and not ever!’ Despite knowing that if he had to resort to shouting he was wrong, he shouted the last part anyway. ‘Ours is a marriage in name only! And you’d do well to remember that!’

  The obvious thing to do after such an impassioned declaration was to storm out, only thanks to the taproom filled with nosy onlookers downstairs and the enormous bedchamber in front of him, he had nowhere else to go. Lydia, damn her, made no move to leave the room either.

  ‘Now you have got that off your chest, can we eat? Or are you going to start throwing the food around next?’

  ‘You want to eat?’

  Flabbergasted, he watched her pull out a chair and sit before she lifted the lid of a tureen and took a sniff. ‘As tempting as it is to join you in a tantrum, because Lord only knows I am as horrified by our situation as you are, I haven’t eaten anything since luncheon and I am starving.’

  ‘Oh…’

  She dunked the ladle in the stew, filling it to the brim. ‘Shall I dish some up for you or do you still need to wave your arms around some more?’

  Then to his utter horror she started to laugh. He had a sneaking suspicion it was at him and that made him feel even more ridiculous and belligerent.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny.’

  ‘Do you not?’ Her eyes drifted to the pile of bedding on the floor, then flicked back up at him. ‘The innkeeper? His wife? Those two drunkards who had all the subtlety of a pair of bricks? The Chinese-puzzle door latch? The cringeworthy marital advice?’ Her lips twitched again as she returned her attention to serving the stew as a snort escaped. He had forgotten she snorted like a piglet when she laughed, which surprised him because he had always adored it.

  ‘Then there was your epic fight with that poor blanket. It was touch and go there for a while.’ Another bubble of laughter escaped and filled the room. Only this one seemed to calm his temper rather than fire it. ‘I had forgotten you had quite the temper, Owen.’ She placed the bowl of stew on the table opposite the empty seat and picked up the second to serve herself. ‘It is so nice to see something familiar.’ Her smile this time touched her eyes and was like a balm to his soul. He had missed it. Missed them. ‘Do you remember that afternoon you couldn’t untangle the reins of my horse?’

  Now there was a memory he hadn’t visited for a while. She always rode in Hyde Park on his afternoons off. Her maid had been courting a soldier stationed in the barracks nearby and Lydia had been only too delighted to cajole her neglectful chaperon into abandoning her to visit with him so she coul
d ride alone. Then the pair of them would meet on one of the quiet paths along the back of the Serpentine. They’d tie up her pony among the thicket of dense trees that lined it and sit and talk for an hour uninterrupted. Or kiss. There had been rather a lot of kissing in the weeks before he was snatched away.

  ‘It had been raining.’ Not that they had cared. ‘And the leather expanded.’ Welding the damn knot he’d tied shut tight.

  ‘And you got so frustrated with it, you kicked the tree trunk…’

  ‘And broke my little toe.’ He found himself smiling back and sitting in the chair. ‘You laughed your head off, as I recall.’ There had been a great deal of snorting then, until he confessed he’d done himself a mischief and she had soothed and pampered his bruised ego while apologising profusely.

  ‘In my defence, I had no idea you had broken a bone. I was laughing at the way you were carrying on. Much like just now. You do like to wave your arms about and howl at the moon…’ Her smile suddenly turned wistful. ‘But in those days your temper tantrums always blew themselves out very quickly. Is that still the case?’

  ‘I am not waving my arms about now.’ Because she had defused it, exactly as she always had when he became impatient with the world. ‘I am sorry about…all that just now. I am usually better at controlling my temper nowadays.’ None of this was her fault. She was here because her father was on the cusp of bankruptcy and she was selflessly bailing him out and Owen had selfishly moved heaven and earth to stop her marrying Kelvedon.

  ‘These are peculiar times…for both of us. I dare say we shall both have a few tantrums till we find our feet.’ Magnanimously, she served him some potatoes. ‘It doesn’t help that we are virtual strangers.’

  ‘We never used to be.’

  ‘No…’ She stared down at her plate, then shrugged as she met his gaze again. ‘But a decade has passed since then and you are not the same Owen Wolfe who used to meet me in Hyde Park any more than I am the same Lydia Barton.’