Mr. Bateman dropped an arm around her shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “They didn’t allow dogs, anyway. Trust me, this is for the best. And then we’ve only a few days left till we reach London. Nothing like sleeping beneath the stars. You’ll wish we’d been doing this all along.”
Aubrey quivered but it had nothing to do with any fear of the evening ahead. No, it had everything to do with having this man’s arm wrapped around her.
She was coming to like the feeling far too much.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Daniels pulled off the road into what seemed a relatively private copse of trees.
Mr. Bateman jumped to the ground and then assisted her out as well. “Are you ready to get to work, Princesse?”
“Um…” She assessed the area and nodded. She supposed if they were going to sleep outside, this was as good a place as any.
Cradling Mr. Dog as though he was an infant, Aubrey glanced around at the trees, the ground littered with rocks and leaves and… bugs. And shivered at the prospect of the night ahead.
“You can fetch water for the horses off to the left over there.” Mr. Bateman instructed Mr. Daniels. Aubrey stood, feeling at quite a loss as to what she ought to do while he strung his rope from tree to tree and then back again. A structure of some sort began to emerge when he arranged the canvas material over it. When he’d finished, he glanced up at Aubrey. “If I’m not mistaken, along with your enticing nightwear, you’ve a few quilts stored away in that trunk.”
“Oh, yes. Yes.” She placed Mr. Dog on the ground, tying his leading string to a tree and forced herself to summon enthusiasm for this endeavor. After all, it wasn’t Mr. Bateman’s fault that they had to sleep outdoors. In fact, if not for him, she’d be forced to do so … likely inside the carriage.
In the dark.
Alone.
Mr. Daniels had hefted two of her trunks off the carriage and Aubrey rifled through them until she located the quilts she’d packed so carefully a little over one week before.
“I’ve my own.” Mr. Daniels declined the primrose print she offered up. She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to where her driver had been sleeping. But of course, he’d have some sort of provision in the vehicle.
“Bring those over here, Princesse.”
Aubrey scurried around the carriage to the shelter Mr. Bateman had built and grudgingly admitted to herself that it wasn’t nearly as primitive as she’d imagined. He’d even used one of the large pieces of canvas to cover the ground.
One.
“Where will you build the other one?” She bit her lip.
“I’m afraid this is it for tonight. Home sweet home.”
“But…”
Mr. Bateman removed the quilts from her suddenly numb hands and laid them out invitingly upon the canvas covered ground. He folded one of them lengthwise and placed it in the middle, creating a barrier, of sorts.
“We’ll need to collect some wood to build a fire before dark.” He moved around the area most efficiently. Tightening the ropes to secure the tent in place and placing the occasional larger rock in the shape of a circle. “But stay close.”
Aubrey nodded, reminding herself that his actions had all been quite honorable since their acquaintance.
But if she was to be honest, it wasn’t his honor that concerned her.
With Mr. Dog in tow, she collected as many twigs and short branches as she could find and tossed them inside the rock circle.
“It’s obvious you’ve not built a fire before.” That laughter lurked in his voice that she was becoming all too accustomed to. He crouched down beside her and began organizing the pile of twigs she’d amassed.
When she didn’t move, he tugged at her, pulling her down beside him. “The smaller, dryer wood will light first.” He crisscrossed them along the bottom. “With help from some dry grass. And it needs air to stay lit.”
He then offered her a handful of the smaller branches. “Once you get these built up, we’ll light it and add larger, thicker pieces.”
He seemed content to watch her, offering suggestions from time to time, and so Aubrey felt confident in asking more about his past. “Did you do this often? During the war?”
Mr. Bateman stiffened and ignored her question. Practically holding her breath, she rearranged a few of the smaller branches and then sat back while he ignited some of the dry grasses sprinkled around their little tower of wood.
After blowing on the small flame, and watching the twigs ignite, his voice broke into the quiet. “After training for months, I was pulled off the front after less than a week.”
She turned to look at him but refrained from commenting this time.
“My father took ill and I was… needed at home.”
“So you didn’t actually fight in any battles?” The second the question flew out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. By the look on his face, it was obviously a sore spot for him.
“Not a single one. Went through training, made my goodbyes, donned my uniform and then before a shot was fired, I was on a ship back home.” The self-derision thickened his accent. “Of course, you wish to know all about me, Princess. Now you know my greatest failure.”
“But how can you call that a failure? You had no choice?” He ignored her protests and simply stared into the flames which had begun to eagerly lick at the log he’d placed on top.
“I’ve not always been able to do as I please, Aubrey. I know you think that men are allowed so much more freedom than women, but some of us are born with certain responsibilities—responsibilities that preclude us from living a different life, a life perhaps, that we’d prefer.”
She felt like he was trying to tell her something more—something he couldn’t say—but he’d once again erected that barrier she’d run into before. In that moment, he wasn’t the easily amused gentleman who’d joked about so many other aspects of their journey.
She stared at his sharp profile, made more mysterious by the shadows and highlights dancing across his lean cheeks and jaw, thinking that he would never seem like a mere soldier. He seemed more like a major, or a general even.
But he also seemed to be so very lonely…
Reaching out a hand, she tentatively touched his arm. He stilled. It seemed that neither of them was breathing now and yet somehow her heart raced wildly.
“You told me that I knew what was important about you—that I didn’t need to know the details of where you grew up, or where you were going, in order to know you.”
He turned his head to look at her.
“Always,” she searched for her words, “doing what you must. Being responsible. It is only a part of who you are. You will find peace and joy in your life. You have a gift. Perhaps it is the magic of the laughter you carry in your heart.”
And suddenly she felt very silly.
“Magic, eh?” That smile spread across his mouth, but it wasn’t derisive or mocking in anyway. “I think it is you who carries the magic, Princesse.”
She dropped her gaze to where her hand rested on his jacket. “I’m being foolish. You must think me very unsophisticated and presumptuous to suggest I understand your life.” Likely everyone in London would think the same of her. Who was she to invite artists and writers into her home? She was a nobody. A country bumpkin.
“How do you do it?” he asked.
“How do I do what?” Her voice came out sounding little more than a whisper. By now she felt almost mesmerized by the flickering light from the flames.
“Still see the good in the world? After all you’ve been through…” She watched the motion in his throat as he swallowed hard. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
“No. No.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid of everything! I can’t even walk through a taproom on my own. How am I going to succeed in London? I fear I’m going to end up alone and shunned with only Mr. Dog for company. I don’t know anyone. I don’t know all the rules, or the norms. I’m going to seem like a bungling fool once I get there––”
He squeezed her hand. “Never.” And then he reached across and gently touched her just above her breast, on her left side.
Her heart.
“You have something very special inside of you. The fact that despite all of your fears you are still making this journey… That shows your courage.”
Aubrey licked her lips. The air around them had grown heavy and she wondered if he felt it the same as she did. It was as though all the pent-up desire she’d ever had for anything, for anyone, had centered itself on this one man.
She couldn’t help but feel pulled closer to him, to part her lips…
“I promised I wouldn’t kiss you.” His gaze flicked to her mouth and then back up to her eyes. “You said that if I did then you couldn’t allow yourself to spend time alone with me—that we would have to part.”
She’d had reasons for telling him that but in that particular moment none of her concerns seemed to matter.
A large popping in the fire chose that moment to break the spell she’d fallen under.
Both of them turned back to stare into the flames. Several minutes passed and Aubrey wished she knew what he was thinking.
“Are you hungry?” His question jolted her as he pushed himself to stand. “Stay here.”
Aubrey stared at her hands after he disappeared. They were shaking as well as most of her insides. A flush had spread through her entire body and her brain was focused on only one thing.
He’d wanted to kiss her.
But perhaps the greater dilemma was that… She wanted him to.
Definitely a greater dilemma.
What would it feel like? She’d taken a husband, grown to the ancient age of five and twenty, buried said husband and yet she’d never been kissed.
Perhaps it was exactly what she needed. One kiss: one kiss from an honorable gentleman. Something to store away in her memories so that she’d know she’d not missed out on everything good that life had to offer.
The sounds of him returning sent her heart racing again. She couldn’t look at him, fearful he’d see all of these emotions on her face. At times, he’d possessed an uncanny knack for reading her thoughts.
Crouching beside her again, he set a basket between them and opened it to reveal bread, cheese, jams… a delicious assortment of all the foods she’d considered overly indulgent until she’d met this man.
“This is for your son.” He removed a bowl and flicked a glance toward Mr. Dog, now sprawled on his back, eyes open, legs spread wide and his tongue hanging out of his mouth.
She smiled that he’d refer to Mr. Dog as her ‘son.’ The prospect of ever becoming and actual mother was a melancholy one.
“Harrison wanted a son. When I failed to provide him with one, he said it was my punishment.” The words escaped her without thought. She shared her musings with Mr. Bateman far too easily.
What would her deceased husband think if he saw her now, with a strange man? What would he think if he knew she would now have a dog for her child? For some odd reason, imagining his opinion made her laugh.
Mr. Bateman didn’t comment on her unusually personal comment. He was breaking up some meat and bread and placing it into the bowl. He drew out a cannister and poured some white liquid onto the food.
“Milk. How thoughtful.”
“Hopefully it will soften the food enough for Good old Mr. Dog to get some down.”
This man was charming her again. Not by being suave or doling out compliments, but in the compassion he had for her dog.
When she glanced over at him, though, he was frowning, and his jaw seemed to be clenched.
“Did he ever hit you?” He ground the question out, almost as though he was afraid to hear the answer.
The first year had been the worst. He hadn’t hit her, so much as… subdued her, often leaving bruises on her wrists and thighs. When she didn’t answer right away, Mr. Bateman made a growling sound and rubbed one hand down his face.
“I tried to… do as he asked.” He’d told her to relax and hold still for him.
But there had always been pain, and when she’d experienced the acute discomfort, she couldn’t help but try to pull away, to close herself so that he couldn’t get to her.
“He gave up after a year and after that, aside from…” controlling her every move. “well, he no longer visited my chamber.” He had hit her though. There had been occasions when he’d find fault with something she’d said, or done, and felt it his duty to dole out her punishment.
“He’s eaten over half of it.” Aubrey announced brightly, happy to discuss anything else but this. “Although he’s making something of a mess.” Drool and bubbles frothed out of Mr. Dog’s mouth as he searched around the bowl and gummed the pieces of food he’d gotten a hold of.
“He never kissed you, though?” Mr. Bateman persisted.
It didn’t make her angry that he would not let go of the painful subject, which was odd. Ironically, she almost felt as though by telling him, that she was letting some of it go.
It was her past and there was nothing she could do to change it.
Her husband had taken her body, but he’d not stolen her first kiss. The thought made her smile.
“He did not.”
Mr. Bateman poured some wine into a cup and handed it across to her. She refused to imagine how all of this food would settle onto her small frame and instead thoroughly enjoyed it. The wine, the cheese, the meats, the sweets… all of it. But especially the company.
As the fire burned, they discussed their favorite authors and he described to her some of the paintings he’d come across during his time in London.
The sun had set, and without much moonlight, it seemed a thousand stars shone above them by the time they had consumed the full bottle of wine and over half of the food. They would keep the rest for the morning.
“What of Mr. Daniels?” She asked when Mr. Bateman rose to store the basket inside of the carriage.
Mr. Bateman gestured toward the other side of the carriage to where the horses had been tied off. When he lifted a finger to his lips, she silenced herself enough that she could hear the loud snoring sounds coming from the other side.
“I believe he’s made use of his gin.”
Which meant that she and Mr. Bateman might just as well be alone. Except for Mr. Dog of course, and he wasn’t much of a chaperone at all.
“If you wish to change behind the tent, you can have your privacy. I’ll fetch us water to clean up.” He offered her his hand and when she gave him hers, tugged until she’d risen to her feet. Aubrey swayed slightly. “Steady there.” He grasped her elbow.
She hadn’t drunk any wine since before she’d married.
“Thank you.” The good food, the night air, the fire, the wine and his company all combined had left her in a fuzzy state of… contentment but also… anticipation.
He didn’t move until she’d turned toward the tent to change. Since he’d removed her trunk from the carriage and placed it beside the tent, she easily retrieved her night rail and dressing gown––both modestly made up of cotton, high necked and long sleeved. It would feel refreshing to change out of the dress she’d worn all day. Not only was it covered in mud from Mr. Dog’s bath, but smoke from the fire clung to it as well.
“Here’s a bowl of water.” He’d hardly made a sound moving through the darkness alone. “At least we didn’t use all of your soap on Mr. Dog.”
Aubrey smiled back at him. Bathing her “son” with Mr. Bateman that morning had been the best time she’d had in years.
“You will…” Aubrey needed to ensure that she’d have privacy. “turn your back?”
“I’ll do better than that. Give me the mutt and I’ll walk him in the meadow before we bed down. That way you’ll have the firelight to see what you’re doing.”
Aubrey handed over the leading string and watched him walk away once again.
Why was this man so special—so kind, and protective and generous? Were there others similar to hi
m? Had she only seen the bad side of the opposite sex while living in Rockford Beach?
“Don’t take all night!” He shouted over his shoulder, jolting her into action.
She stepped behind the tent—there was hardly enough room for her to change inside—and unhooked the buttons at the front of her dress.
She’d never disrobed outside and experienced yet another odd sense of abandon as she lay her gown atop her trunk. She could sleep in her chemise, but a quick sniff had her untying the laces of her minimal corset and stripping it off as well.
Cool air skimmed along her skin in much the way she imagined a gentle lover might tease her with his fingertips. But that was not going to happen for her.
But… could it? She lifted her hands to her hair and removed the pins from the twist she’d made that morning.
She’d been so certain she’d never marry again, for so very long. But she hadn’t met Mr. Bateman yet.
Lost in her thoughts, she drew her fingers through her hair, and then the brush that used to be her mother’s.
Not that Mr. Bateman would ever wish to marry her, but he’d made her wonder if there might be something more.
After weaving her hair into a single long braid, she dropped lavender scented oil into the water, wet a cloth and then lazily wiped her face and neck. An indolent and sensual feeling had taken a hold of her. It was the wine making her feel this way. Of course, it had to be the wine.
She skimmed the cloth along her chest, lazily lavishing more attention to her breasts than normal.
Would he laugh at her if she released him from his promise, finding her amusing once again? Or would he kiss her?
She lay the cloth against her chest and moved her fingertips to the undersides of her breasts, imagining for a moment that it was his hands that touched her.
A few barks from Mr. Dog had her turning to grasp at her night rail. What on earth was she doing? What if he’d returned?
Aubrey drew the gown over her head and then quickly scrubbed the cloth over her legs and between her thighs before rinsing it out and placing it beside her soiled gown to dry.
“Are you decent yet?”
“Just a moment.” Aubrey slipped her arms into her dressing gown. “I’m ready.” And for some reason these words had her blushing in the dark. She sounded like a bride who’d prepared for her groom.
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