For the Love of Lila (8 page)

Lila stole a peek at Tristan, whose eyes had gone big. She felt a stab of guilt. This was her fault. She had insisted on this foolish costume. And he had his future at stake.

“Bein’ that she’s disguised,” the landlady said to him, “I take it she’s got a family she’s hiding from. I know a runaway when I see one. Was one once meself, only I lucked out and got meself a husband. If you’d half a heart in ye, ye’d do what’s right by her and make her an honest woman.”

“I’ll do what’s right by her,” he said, his tone low.

She looked to Lila. “Is he treatin’ ye decent, miss? If he isn’t, ye can stay right here wit’ me. I reckon we can find some way fer ye to keep yerself.”

“He treats me very well indeed, ma’am,” she said, too guilt-ridden to be distressed by what the woman must take her for. “Please, ma’am, it’s important that no one know my secret. Very important. Does your husband know—”

“Yer secret’s safe, missy, as long as that’s what ye want. Me husband doesn’t have the best of eyesight.” She looked at Tristan and frowned. “He jus’ took ye fer one of them what likes boys. Ye know what I mean.”

He clenched his teeth, stealing a searing glance at Lila. “Indeed.”

“We have to go,” she said quickly. She climbed up on the box. Tristan glared up at her for a moment before following her aboard. When he had settled next to her, he gave her another scowl.

She looked away from him, turning to give the landlady a smile of reassurance. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Mind you treat that gel right, sirrah,” the woman said to Tristan.

He grimaced and urged the horses into a trot.

Once they had pulled out onto the road, Lila waited for him to meet her gaze again, but he stared straight ahead.

“You were right about this disguise,” she said. “I apologize for insisting on it. As soon as we reach the open country, stop the carriage and I will change inside.”

He peered at her, lip curled, and looked back to the lane.

The space between them prickled with tension. She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “I suppose I can endure a few days of feigned enslavement. You won’t lord it over me too much, will you?”

He let out a snort. “If anyone could have any amount of command over you, Miss Covington, I don’t know who. But I am not about to overestimate
my
capabilities.”

No, you underestimate them
, she thought. She sat back in her seat, satisfied with his answer, satisfied that he had answered at all. His silence would have been far worse.

“I can command myself,” she said. “Perhaps I haven’t demonstrated that, but only because I didn’t realize I needed to. There are some matters that I never...” She let out a nervous laugh. “Well, let us say that I have done what I could to prepare myself for the world, but it would seem that my education hasn’t quite taught me everything.”

Again, he snorted. “I daresay it has not. Unfortunately, one never knows what one isn’t prepared for until one faces it.”

His observation made her think of Paris and how different her life would be there. How different
would
it be? She didn’t even know what to expect from her cousin, let alone the rest of the city. Suddenly, she wished quite fervently that she’d had a response from Felicity before departing. She put her hand up to her chin. “What a disturbing thought.”

He gave her a wry smile. “
N’est-ce pas?
”

CHAPTER SIX

Tristan swept back his wind-whipped hair and gazed out at the Channel. Far beyond the dapples of reflected sunlight on the water, he could just discern a sliver of land...France. He drew the salty breeze into his lungs and sighed. They had survived the worst of the journey.

Wakes lapped against the side of the ship, joining the flutter of the sails to beat out a soothing percussion. The Channel had granted what the captain deemed “the calmest sailing of the year,” and Tristan, too, felt the calmest he had in some time. In France, he and Miss Covington would be less likely to arouse suspicion, especially now that she had taken on a more credible disguise. She had taken on a more serious attitude as well. For two days, she had been the embodiment of discretion, a

demure “wife” in public and a detached intellectual in private. She had kept to herself for most of the crossing, below deck, translating Italian poetry. He even found himself missing the playful chit he had traveled with the first day—but, no, he didn’t want
that
Lila Covington back. Did he?

“Tristan!”

He turned around to see her walking across the deck toward him, radiant in a simple rose-sprigged white muslin gown. She had taken to calling him by his given name, presumably to foster the appearance of their being married. Many wives addressed their husbands as “Mr. ,” but he didn’t object to her adopting the less formal manner. Employing each other’s first names left less room for them to slip than if they had addressed one another by the false surname on their passports.

“Lila.” He smiled as she joined him, taking both her hands in his own and squeezing them in the moderate show of affection they had established for their “married” greeting. “How are you faring with Alfieri?”

“Quite well. I have even untangled my way through that difficult canto I told you about.” She gave him the widest smile he had seen on her face in days, a grin that reminded him of the carefree woman who had shared the picnic with him.

He released her hands. “You must be pleased.”

“More pleased than I can tell you—and I understand we have an even greater cause for celebration. I heard that we’ve come within sight of land.” She looked out at the water, adjusting her chipstraw hat to shield her eyes from the sun. “Which way is Normandy?”

He took her by the shoulders and aimed her in the right direction. The gesture seemed intimate, but they were supposed to be married...and he had wanted to touch her. He always wanted to touch her now—ever since the other night when he’d woke to find her at his bedside. Lord, he had been tempted to pull her into the trundle with him.

Her arms felt delicate and warm as he let his hands slide from them. “Look directly out at the horizon. Do you see the strip of land?”

“Where—through the mist? Wait—yes! Yes, I do.” She supported herself on the rail, leaning out over the water. “Oh, how exciting! I have never set foot on any soil but England’s.”

“Do be careful, Lila.” He moved up behind her and held her waist to steady her. Her hair smelled faintly of rosewater, and he wanted to slip his arms all the way around her. She likely didn’t need his hold, but she did not protest—indeed, did not react. He wondered if she were even aware of how her bottom brushed his thigh when she bent forward. Acutely conscious of the contact himself, he stood still, careful not to press closer...nor to step apart from her.

“We’ve made it.” She looked up at him over her shoulder. “I believe we ought to congratulate ourselves.”

“Congratulations.” His voice came out husky. If she were truly his wife, he would have kissed her. He gazed down into her luminous eyes and felt a flash of temptation. They
were
“married,” were they not? But not even real married couples kissed in public. And, no, they were not married. They never would be. Marriage was against her principles—and a deuced preposterous thought to enter his head.

“Why on earth are you frowning?” she asked, laughing. “I hope you’re not thinking about your business concerns now. We should be festive. What can we do to celebrate?”

“What, indeed.”

“I know. We will have a full-course French dinner tonight, accompanied by a native wine. Or do you think extravagant dining would be unwise?” Her expression sobered, the smooth skin between her brows crinkling. “Indeed, I don’t suppose it will do. The lesser known inns we must patronize don’t often have a private dining parlor, and we would not want to eat a drawn-out meal in public. I suppose we will have to settle for a simple supper, won’t we?”

She awaited his answer with an attentive air, perhaps not quite persuaded and expecting him to sway her. If so, she had made a mistake. At the moment, he was fresh out of prudence.

“I daresay taking one public meal at a remote inn in a foreign country presents little enough risk,” he said. “Besides, tonight’s dinner may well be our last together. We should have a special meal.”

“Truly?” Her brow cleared again, and she flashed him a smile that made him want to agree to all her whims. “Are you quite certain you feel comfortable with the idea?”

“So far, you have been a convincing wife. Unless you stand up in the middle of the dining room and expound about the evils of marriage, I believe I shall be entirely comfortable.”

She laughed. “I daresay I can forgo expounding in honor of the occasion. I will be such a docile little creature you will believe we truly are married.”

Not likely
, he thought, watching her eyes sparkle. Had he been married to her, he would not have agreed to waste the evening gorging in a public dining hall. There would have been far more preferable ways to celebrate.

Her gaze latched onto his, so intent that he fancied she could see straight through into his mind. As they continued staring at one another, her smile waned, yielding to a serious, almost grave expression. An instant later, she broke out of the trance and turned back to view the water.

“I can scarcely credit that our voyage is nearly over. I have barely felt a wave.” Her tone was still light, but he thought he detected a stilted quality. “Can you believe I was afraid I would be seasick?”

“You have had a singularly mild introduction to sea travel. Not all of my past crossings have been so calm.”

“Nonetheless, I shall boast to everyone of my iron stomach.” She gave a low chuckle that made him want to tease more such laughs from her throat. He nearly suggested turning their dinner into another picnic, but he caught himself. Did he want to regress to the intimate footing that had led them to the brink of fiasco their first night?

He transferred his stare from the curve of her neck out to the shores of Normandy.

“Tristan? Tristan, you are miles away.” She hooked her arm through his, unknowingly maddening him with her proximity. “We really should go below and ensure that we’ve left nothing behind. The captain says we can expect to land within the hour.”

He nodded and turned toward the stairs with her. These obsessive thoughts of his had to end—but, of course, they would end when the journey did. If all continued well, they would reach Paris the following evening. He would deliver her to her cousin, and then his life would settle down. The only contact he and Lila would ever have again would be a rare letter regarding her trust.

Somehow, the knowledge gave him no solace. He slid a glance at her lovely profile. If anything, he wanted more than ever to pull her into his arms.

* * * *

Though the small stone inn they approached that evening looked cozy, Lila could not seem to recapture the cheer she had felt earlier. She accompanied Tristan inside, reminding herself that she could anticipate a hot bath and rich French cooking. But she kept remembering that the next day she would have to part from the man at her side. She pulled a little closer to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the move.

“Tired?” he asked while they waited for the proprietor to finish speaking with another party.

She nodded. “We have come a long way today.”

“But we have ensured that we can reach Paris tomorrow.” He looked down at her, studying her face for a moment. “I can see that our mad dash has taken a toll on you. I am sorry we did not stop earlier. Why don’t you lean against me while we wait?”

She had to turn her face away in order to hide her surprise. Her recent restraint must have given him the confidence to lower his guard. Or maybe their feigned marriage was fooling
them
as well as other people. She had noticed a gradual increase in physicality between them—only in little touches but occurring more and more frequently. Knowing her susceptibility to him, she should have been avoiding such contact, but she let her head drop against him. She had fewer than twenty-four hours left to spend with him. She wanted to savor every second.

At last, the innkeeper turned to them and nodded a greeting. Beside him, a petite dark-haired woman, likely his wife, glanced their way and gave them a knowing smile. She murmured something to her husband in French, of which Lila caught only the words “young love.” Apparently, she and Tristan were performing their roles well, not a difficult task for her.

The thought made her start, as it implied that what she felt for him wasn’t much short of love. Nonsense, clearly. She felt a great deal of...affection. Well, attraction too, but those two feelings scarcely added up to love. Of course, she held a good deal of esteem for him as well...and a certain amount of wonder over how he had come to be the intriguing man he was.

She stopped her train of thought, unwilling to continue adding up her feelings. The mounting sum alarmed her. She had a notion that instead of starting her life in Paris excited over the independence she had gained, she would be fending off a terrible sense of loss.

“Come, Lila,” Tristan urged, and she saw that the proprietress was poised to lead them upstairs.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, forcing herself to follow.

The woman showed them to a pair of adjoining chambers, connected by an inner door. Lila’s room boasted a large, comfortable feather bed, though she suspected she would not sleep well anyway. She had too much on her mind.

While Tristan made arrangements for their dinner, her thoughts continued to stray. And when he and the proprietress suddenly left her alone, she realized she had no idea what time they had agreed upon for the meal.

No matter. Whatever time they had set, she would be ready. She had no intention of wasting precious minutes lingering over her toilette.

The hot bath the inn servants set up for her felt luxurious after the long day of travel, but she splashed through her routine without dallying. She barely dried herself before shrugging into her finest gown, a difficult task without a maid to help. Luckily, the emerald-green velvet gave enough to allow her to reach the buttons running down her back.