Danice Allen (4 page)

“No, you mustn’t touch the wound, sir,” she admonished him in a low but forceful tone. “The bleeding may start again.”

His head moved fitfully on the cushion, but his eyes didn’t open and he did not answer her. She glanced down at his hands and was astonished that she had managed to stop him from grabbing his bandage. Though finely shaped, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, it was obvious his hands were capable of great strength. They’d gone limp now, and she lowered them to his chest.

Bracing herself against the back of the seat as the carriage swayed and rocked over the country roads, she stood over him till he settled down and appeared to be sleeping again. Then, for good measure, she stood over him a few minutes longer. She tried to convince herself she was merely concerned that he may suddenly become restless again and reach for his bandage, but her inherent honesty forced her to admit otherwise.

She
liked
looking at him. Except for the dancing she’d shyly suffered through during her season four years ago, she had never been this close to a man. And certainly no man as attractive as this one.

His hair was a riotous tumble of black curls flattened here and there by a glob of mud, but she could well imagine how fine it would look clean and gleaming in candlelight or sunshine. A curling strand dangled over his brow, and her fingers itched to touch it, to examine its texture. But she hesitated, held back by the habits of her strict upbringing. She almost felt it would be a sin of sorts to indulge her curiosity, because she was quite sure she would find touching this strange man most pleasurable.

Then a rebellious thought came conveniently to her rescue. Why should she allow the habits instilled in her by her parents to continue to dictate her actions when she had so recently received shocking proof that her mother and father’s pious existence was nothing but a sham?

Amanda clenched her jaw. It was but a paltry act of rebellion, but it was a start. She bravely reached down and caught the dusky curl, gently pressing and rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. She smiled to herself, satisfied that her imagination had not exceeded reality in this case. The strand of hair was as silky soft as a kitten’s ear, but thick and springy, too. She brushed it back from his forehead and looked critically at the man’s face.

His brows were black and gracefully arched. Feeling quite brazen by now, she lightly followed the curve of his brow with the tip of her finger. She admired his thick lashes, which were lush enough to send a green girl into heart flutters. Luckily she was no green girl, or she might have misconstrued that odd sensation in her chest.

His nose was straight and slightly aquiline. His lips were boldly curved, and she would nave traced their sensuous outline, too, if she hadn’t been convinced that she’d already been rebellious enough for one day.

But then she noticed a scar on his upper right cheekbone, very thin and silvery white, and at least an inch long. It looked like a knife or saber wound. Instead of detracting from his looks, it seemed to add to them, making him appear brave, dangerous, mysterious…. She touched the scar. It was smooth and soft.

Then she found herself fascinated by the shadow of a beard on his jaw and chin, and she couldn’t help but wonder how a man’s skin felt when he needed a shave. She doubted she’d ever have the opportunity to find out during the sort of physical intimacies enjoyed between husbands and wives, so she decided that one last delicious act of rebellion was inevitable.

She ever-so-carefully laid her palm against his cheek, ready to pull back the instant he reacted to her touch. Feeling a strange flutter of excitement, she lightly moved her hand back and forth. The beard stubble tickled her tender palm like the soft bristles of a brush. She wondered how those bristles would feel against her cheek, her breasts….

Alarmed and feeling flushed by such unusually provocative thoughts, Amanda was about to remove her hand when the man, who had been lying so peacefully an instant before, grabbed her wrist and pressed her palm to his lips. As Amanda stiffened with shock, he released her hand, and a faint, sly smile flickered over his lips.

“You minx,” he murmured in a low, seductive voice. “Don’t you ever get enough? Grant me a half-hour’s sleep, then I’ll—”

But what he would do remained a mystery because his words trailed off as he grimaced with pain and reached for his bandaged head again. Amanda shook free of the pleasant paralysis that had been induced by his warm mouth against her skin and prevented him from disturbing the bandage.

As before, he was surprisingly easy to control. But she suspected that his meekness was only a temporary condition, a product of his inebriated state and the easy, alarming way he slid in and out of consciousness, and not a usual facet of his personality.

Amanda sank into her seat, feeling as though she had been walking on the edge of a cliff, playing a dangerous game far beyond her power to control. She took one last look at the gentleman, who was again lying quite motionless, and closed her eyes. It had been wrong to touch the man without his knowledge or invitation, and it would be easier by far to abstain from further misbehavior if she ceased to gaze at him like a mooncalf.

Soon they would arrive at the inn, and despite the glib way she’d spoken to her coachman, she sincerely hoped the man would have regained consciousness by then. She greatly feared he had suffered a concussion. As well, he might already be missed by friends or relatives, and they’d be worried about him. She wanted him to give a lucid accounting of himself because it was puzzling how he could have ended up in the middle of a wilderness quite drunk and entirely alone. As soon as he could speak, he’d hopefully be able to clear up the mystery surrounding his odd appearance out of nowhere.

She wondered if he was married. She saw no wedding ring on his finger, but men were frequently indifferent about wearing a piece of jewelry that announced one’s marital status. She wondered if the “minx” he’d dreamily referred to in his state of semiconsciousness was his wife … or some bit of fluff?

Amanda felt an unexpected stab of jealousy toward this unknown female. And despite her conviction that such thoughts were improper, Amanda couldn’t help but indulge in a short but extremely pleasant daydream that involved her willing participation in minxlike behavior with the handsome stranger sharing her coach.

Moments later, Amanda pulled herself together and gave herself a stem mental shake. She was surprised by her instant attraction to this man and the risqué thoughts that had beset her ever since she’d first laid eyes … and hands … on him.

She wasn’t sure if there was something so compelling about him that made her give in to urges, or if she was simply rebelling out of anger against her parents. It was too complicated, and she had too many other things to think about … namely the more important and pressing problems that awaited her on Thorney Island.

The horses slowed to a canter, and Amanda lifted the leather shade to peer out the carriage window. They were passing through a small village and, within moments, had pulled into the cobbled courtyard of an inn. Amanda could see a large lantern hanging from an awning over the front door, the glow from it illuminating a wooden sign declaring the name of the establishment to be the Inn of the Three Nuns. It was a modern structure of stucco and thatch but was rather small. She hoped there would be no trouble bespeaking at least two rooms, since she was fairly certain a small village in West Sussex could boast no more than one public inn.

When Harley opened the door and let down the steps for her, she instructed him to stay inside with the injured man till she made sure rooms were available, but she motioned for Joe to follow her as she hurried through the drizzle and up to the door. Once they stood inside the cozy hall, she glanced about for someone to assist her.

At last a sharp-faced, angular woman, with gray hair pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck, came through a narrow doorway. She was dressed in a plain gray dress and white apron and was wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

“What kin I do fer ye, miss?” she asked without a trace of hospitality in her manner. Her hard eyes flitted over Amanda’s mud-spotted skirts, then over to where Joe stood near the door, his coat dripping water on the clean floor.

“I’d like to speak to the landlord, please,” Amanda replied politely.

“M’ husband’s been dead nearly a year and a half,” the woman informed her briskly. “I run the inn now and you’ll have t’ speak t’ me.”

“Oh, I see,” said Amanda, not sure whether to offer condolences or simply state her business as quickly as possible. By the continued unfriendly expression on the woman’s face, Amanda decided on the latter. “I’d like a room,” she said. “That is, I’d like three rooms if you have the vacancies. One for me, one for my … er … companion, who is waiting in the carriage, and the last for my servants, whom I should wish to see accommodated in the house rather than above the stables.”

The woman scowled, giving the distinct impression that she’d rather Amanda had simply stopped to ask for directions and not troubled her with a request for rooms. She shook her head, saying, “Only got one room left, miss, and it might not suit ye. ‘Tis the smallest of the lot.”

Dismayed by this news, Amanda exclaimed, “Oh dear, what’s to do? I don’t suppose there’s another inn for miles!”

“Not fer another fifteen, miss.”

Amanda bit her lip and frowned. “Then we’ll have to manage with the one room.” She wasn’t sure how, but she’d figure something out.

The woman shrugged. “Suit yerself, miss. Make’s no never mind to me. If’n ye stay, the servants can bunk with the ostlers above the stables. ‘Tis clean enough, and there’s but a few fleas this time o’ year. The room I told ye about is indeed quite small, but the bed’s big enough fer two, if’n yer husband’s reasonable sized.”

“Oh, but he’s not—” Amanda stopped herself before she uttered the words she was suddenly quite sure would land her in the suds. She very foolishly had not considered how improper it would appear to most people—and certainly to this crotchety old already narrowed her eyes suspiciously—to be traveling without a chaperon and in the company of a man who was not her husband. There were extenuating circumstances, of course, but Amanda didn’t have time to waste lengthy explanations on someone who would very likely be unmoved by them.

“Was you about to say he’s not yer husband, miss?” the woman demanded to know. “We run a respectable establishment here, and I’ll not have folks playin’ fast and loose on my premises!”

The woman’s ferret-like eyes took another more inclusive assessment of Amanda’s person. As she was enveloped in a black velvet cloak and wore an unadorned bonnet on her head and plain black kid boots on her feet, Amanda couldn’t imagine how she could look more respectable. She could perhaps be a bit more modishly rigged out, and she was a little muddy and travel-worn, but she was quite certain she didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to a woman of easy virtue.

“My dear lady!” exclaimed Amanda, forcing a laugh. “You quite misunderstand! I did not say he
wasn’t
my husband, I only meant to say he is not—as you so charmingly phrased it—of a reasonable size! And since he met with an accident en route here, I hadn’t planned on … er … sharing his bed in the first place. I’ll need a cot and a—”

“Met with an accident, did he?” the proprietress asked sharply. “What sort of an accident?”

“He fell and hit his head on a rock when we were compelled to stop the carriage and allow him to … er … step out for a few moments,” said Amanda, blushing with embarrassment because she was forced to refer to private matters no lady had any business discussing.

“He’s not bleeding, is he? I’ve just scrubbed the floor, and there’s a new carpet in the room you’ll be stayin’ in,” was the woman’s most unsympathetic rejoinder.

Amanda was at the end of her tether. She perceived that no amount of patience and pleasantness would be effective in dealing with such an ill-tempered woman. Amanda lifted her chin and leveled her a chilling, contemptuous gaze. “My good woman, I have tried to be gracious despite your singular lack of concern toward my injured husband, the
earl.”
Amanda thought she heard Joe gasp and sincerely hoped he wasn’t staring with his mouth agape. “It appears I have no choice but to—”

The woman’s jaw dropped. “Your husband’s an earl? And you’re a
countess
?” She gave Amanda’s well-made but unremarkable traveling apparel another once-over.

“The one usually goes with the other,” sniffed Amanda.

“I saw you coming from an upstairs window, and I don’t recall seeing a crest on the carriage,” the woman said doubtfully.

“As you can plainly see by my appearance, we’re in mourning, and in such times of grief my husband prefers to travel as inconspicuously as possible. But that is beside the point. He may have a severe concussion and is still lying in a cold carriage when he should be properly put to bed and looked over by a physician. But if you persist in lamenting the possibility of blood on your clean floor, we may certainly travel farther on in search of a warmer welcome. I daresay, however, that his lordship shan’t have much good to say of your hospitality, and if business suddenly drops off, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”

Amanda pulled a fat purse from a pocket hidden in her skirt. “ ‘Twill be a shame, too, if you decide not to accommodate the earl, as he is known for his generosity and would be
most
grateful to you!”

“Oh, my
lady!”
exclaimed the woman, transfixed by the size of Amanda’s purse and convinced by her haughty manners that she was indeed a member of the peerage. “Don’t mind me, if you please! I’ve had the megrims all day and beg your pardon for takin’ my troubles out on you!”

Amanda gave a slight nod as mute acceptance of the woman’s apology, then inquired, “What is the name of this town, madam?”

“ ‘Tis Horsham, milady.”

“And what is
your
name, if you please?”

The woman curtsied. “ ‘Tis Mrs. Beane, if you please, milady.”