An Unsuitable Bride (18 page)
“Ten minutes, ma’am. We’ll leave when you’re ready.”
“Fifteen minutes will suffice.” She gave him a nod and crossed the yard to the inn door, where the landlord stood attentively. His expression was somewhat dour as he realized that this drab passenger was unlikely to request a private parlor or any of his more expensive amenities.
“Ma’am. Welcome to the George.”
“Thank you. I’ll take coffee in the taproom.”
The man bowed his acknowledgment and then bowed rather more deeply to the gentleman who was following the lady. His blue wool coat was that of a gentleman of fashion, even if it was rather plain, and he carried himself with all the natural authority that the landlord considered necessary to a gentleman of Quality. He rubbed his hands again, saying with an obsequious smile, “Sir, I’ve a fine strong ale, a local brew, if you’d care to try it.”
Perry nodded, stripping off his gloves. “Yes, bring it with the coffee. We’ll find a quiet corner in the taproom.” He placed a proprietorial hand under Alexandra’s elbow and eased her into the dim hallway.
She would have resisted the hand if they were not being observed by the landlord and a bobbing maidservant,
who stood at the door to the taproom. She walked into the room, which smelled of ale and wood smoke from the fire in the hearth.
“Over there, I think. ’Tis secluded.” Peregrine steered her to a settle in a shadowy corner by the fire. “May I take your cloak?”
“No, thank you,” she said stiffly, sitting down. “I’m not staying very long.”
“Maybe not, but that’s no reason to sit swaddled in that hideous garment.” He sat on the settle opposite her, laying his whip and gloves on the table between them.
Alexandra ignored this. “Mr. Sullivan,” she began, “this is where we part company.”
“Oh? How so?” He looked only mildly interested in the statement, leaning back as the maidservant set a pot of coffee and a foaming tankard on the table. He picked up the tankard and drank deeply.
Alex poured coffee and marshaled her forces. “As it happens, I am not traveling immediately to London. So you will wish to continue your journey, while I continue mine in a different direction.”
His eyes sharpened. “What different direction?”
“That, sir, is none of your business.” She sipped her coffee.
He sighed. “No, I’m sure that’s true. However, I seem to have made
you
my business. So, where are we going if not to London?”
“
I
am going my own way.” She began to feel like Sisyphus
pushing his boulder up the mountainside. “
You
are going
yours
.”
Peregrine stroked his chin, regarding her thoughtfully. “Well, there’s a certain difficulty there. You see, I agreed to watch over Sir Stephen’s precious books and see them safely delivered to Douglas House. So, wherever you’re going, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my escort.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You have no obligation to Sir Stephen at all. Believe me, I will take very good care of the books.” She set down her cup with an air of finality. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.” She got up from the settle and marched out of the taproom.
Peregrine drained his tankard, put a coin on the table, and followed her out. The chaise was still in the yard, fresh horses in the traces, and the coachman and postilion were finishing their own ale tankards. There was no sign of Alexandra.
He went up to Sam, who had been watered and rubbed down, and stroked his neck. The horse had another five or six hours left in him if they took it easily. After a few minutes, Alexandra appeared in the yard again, coming from the direction of the outhouse at the rear of the inn. He went to open the chaise door for her.
“So, where to, ma’am?”
She looked at him in frustration. “Why? Why are you insisting on this? My plans have nothing to do
with you. You have your own life to get back to in London. Why can’t you accept that?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps because you interest me beyond reason. Perhaps because I think you are in trouble, and I don’t seem able to stand aside if I can help in any way.” He looked at her closely. “Are you intending to steal the books in the chaise?”
“Oh, that’s just insulting,” she responded. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because they’re valuable?”
“I am not a thief.”
“No, I didn’t think so. So, what
are
you?”
She didn’t answer him, merely turned on her heel and approached the coachman. “I’m taking a detour. Take the coastal road to Lymington, if you please.”
“Lymington, ma’am?” He looked astonished, glancing at Peregrine for confirmation.
“Do as the lady says,” Peregrine instructed. “Ma’am, will you get in?” He indicated the interior of the chaise.
For a moment, she stood, nonplussed. Very rarely had Alexandra experienced this sense of total helplessness. Short of putting a bullet in him, she could not compel him to leave her alone, and she couldn’t outrun him.
“Come now,” he said softly. “I mean you no harm, Alexandra. But I am coming with you.”
Maybe she should give in and simply tell the coachman she’d changed her mind and he should continue to London. But now the need to see her sister was all-consuming.
She was so close, and there was no knowing when another opportunity would arise. What difference did it make if Peregrine came with her as far as Lymington? She could give him the slip there. They would reach Lymington, she would pretend that was her final destination and take a chamber overnight in the Angel, and at some point in the evening, she would make her escape. She could hire a pony from the inn and ride over to Barton—it was a mere five miles over the heath. Peregrine would never know how to find her.
It was less than twenty miles to Lymington, but the coastal road was rough, and the chaise could make little more than six miles an hour. Sam picked his way carefully through the ruts in the narrow lanes, and Peregrine allowed his mind to roam. The gray-green waters of the Solent stretched to the green humpbacked-whale shape of the Isle of Wight and the sharp danger of the Needles rocks off St. Catherine’s Point at the entrance to the English Channel. The salt-smelling air was fresh, and it felt good to be alive.
Every once in a while, he would draw closer to the chaise, but its occupant never showed her face at the window. It must be an uncomfortable ride, he reflected. The chaise was ill sprung and the lanes uneven, but one thing he had gathered about Mistress Alexandra, she had the dedication of a stoic.
And the determination of the desperate
.
Alex was thoroughly miserable and thought enviously of her companion enjoying the air on horseback. She would have given anything to ride. After two hours
of misery, she knocked on the roof of the chaise, and the coachman drew rein. The door opened quickly, and her escort leaned in.
“Is something amiss?”
She ignored the question. She opened her own door and stepped carefully over the tea chest to step out onto the lane on the opposite side of her escort. It was a childish gesture of defiance, she knew, but it gave her some satisfaction. He might force his company upon her, but she didn’t have to acknowledge it.
“I’ll walk for a while,” she called up to the coachman. “The going’s so slow, anyway, it won’t hold us up.”
“Right y’are, ma’am.” He touched his forelock and set the team into motion again at a slow amble while she strolled beside the chaise, her stride lengthening as her cramped muscles loosened.
Peregrine dismounted and led Sam around the back of the chaise to the same side. “I don’t blame you,” he remarked cheerfully. “ ’Tis a beautiful day. A little nip in the air, but all the fresher for it.”
Studiously, she ignored him and increased her pace. He persevered. “The coachman says it should take another two hours at this speed. I gather the Angel is the best coaching inn. I’m looking forward to a good dinner, I must say.”
Alex was famished herself—it was early afternoon now, and it had been many hours since she had broken her fast before dawn—but she maintained her resolute silence. If he had not forced himself upon her, she
would have continued the last few miles to Barton and been there in time for one of Matty’s splendid dinners. Instead, she was going to have to kick her heels at the Angel and waste good money on dinner there, until she could give him the slip.
“Did you bring other clothes in your portmanteau?” he continued as if he hadn’t noticed her silence. “Surely you don’t intend to show yourself on the streets of London in your present guise.”
Alexandra bent and picked up a pebble from the lane. She spun away from him and hurled it off the cliff and into the sea. The furious force of her throw almost upset her balance, and he pulled her back as she teetered precariously close to the cliff edge. “Steady, now. Why am I making you so angry?”
“How could you possibly need to ask such a question?” she snapped, pushing against his chest. “Let go of me.”
Her cloak was hanging loosely from her shoulders, and his hands were on her waist. Not even the coarse folds of her gown could hide the slimness of her body, the tensile strength as she tried to thrust him away from her. He was aware of that same powerful sensual current that had swept through him on the cliff top and saw in the sudden arrested flash in her gray eyes that she felt it, too. Reluctantly, he decided to take the high road, dropped his hands, and stepped back from her. It was a sacrifice, but it was her trust he wanted, not a surrender that she would bitterly regret.
“I think in your present frame of mind, it would be safer to walk away from the edge of the cliff,” he commented, his voice dry.
“I’m getting back into the chaise.” She raised a hand to the coachman, who drew rein, waiting until she was back inside and the door firmly closed.
Alexandra felt hot, and her heart was racing. If he hadn’t done the gentlemanly thing, would she have resisted him this time? She would never know. Oh,
why
was this happening to her? If she hadn’t been so angry at the perversities of fate embodied in the person of Peregrine Sullivan, she would have burst into tears.
It was mid-afternoon by the time they turned under the arched entrance to the Angel’s coaching yard. Alex was by now stiff and heartily sick of the whole business. She knew that without her persistent escort, her excitement at the prospect of being so close to journey’s end would have made nothing of her ills, but now she could only see hours of anxiety ahead of her until she could rid herself of the Honorable Peregrine.
Peregrine handed Sam over to a groom with the instruction to give him a good rubdown and a bran mash. The coachman, with much the same relief, relinquished his team to the ostlers. “You’ll be restin’ ’ere, then, ma’am?” he inquired as Alex stepped out of the chaise.
“For the night, yes,” she responded. She walked into the inn, where Peregrine was already talking with the landlord.
“There’s a chamber available abovestairs on the side and another, rather larger, at the front. I think you’ll be more comfortable on the side. It’ll be quieter than facing the street, so if you’re agreeable, I will take the one at the front.”
It wasn’t worth telling him she was quite capable of making her own decisions when it came to her own accommodations. He was right that she would prefer the quieter room, so she merely gave him a curt nod and addressed the landlord. “Would you have the tea chest and my portmanteau brought up from the chaise to my chamber? And I would like hot water immediately, and then I will dine in my chamber in half an hour.”
For such a timid-seeming mouse, Mistress Alexandra, once away from Combe Abbey, had a very commanding way with her, Peregrine reflected. “I’ll see to your things.” He beckoned to a man in a leather apron. “Come with me.”
“If you’ll follow me, ma’am.” The landlord went to the stairs, and Alex followed him up to a small but fairly comfortable chamber at the side of the building. “Will you wish to keep the bed to yourself, ma’am?” the man asked. “If so, it’ll be three shillings a night. If you don’t mind bundling, then I can let you ’ave it for two.”
“I’ll pay the extra,” she said, tossing her hat and cloak onto a bench at the foot of the poster bed. She had no choice, since she would have to leave the tea chest locked in here overnight when she went to Barton, instead of taking it with her as she’d intended. Her
original plan, before Peregrine had intruded, had been that the coachman would drive her to Barton, where she could unload the chest, and then he’d drive back to collect her and her possessions the following day. Now she was obliged to spend money she didn’t have to waste simply because the Honorable Peregrine felt a perverse need to help her with something she could manage perfectly well herself.
The man bowed and backed out, and a few minutes later, Peregrine appeared with the servant, who was struggling under the weight of the tea chest. Peregrine put her portmanteau on the bed and glanced around as the servant set the chest in the corner of the room. “This seems adequate.”
“Yes,” she agreed shortly. She opened her coin purse for something to give the servant, but Peregrine forestalled her, tossing the man a sixpence.
