Megan Frampton (17 page)

***

When he woke, it was barely dawn; the sun’s rays were trying to sneak into the room through the smeared glass windows. She lay on her side, her hand curled under his arm in a gesture of trust. It pulled at his heart.

Gently, so as not to wake her, he rose from the bed, stalking to where he’d left his clothing. He glanced back to make sure she was still sleeping. He didn’t want to have to confront the truth about what had happened, or not right now, at least.

He pulled his breeches on and threw his shirt over his head, tucking it in untidily. His jacket was hanging where she’d put it, on the hook near the door. He eased the door open and closed it just as quietly, creeping down in the hall in the preday gloom.

The village they were in was just large enough not to be called a hamlet; from where he stood, in front of the inn, he could see the blacksmith where they’d been married, a general-goods store, and a milliner’s.

He hadn’t noticed much of the town during their walk yesterday. He’d been too focused on her, on what they’d done, on what they might do.

On telling her about himself.

Even now, that made his throat tighten. He’d never admitted the truth of his marriage to anyone. Naturally, his family knew, but they’d never spoken about it.

They were far too proper.

Whereas he? He was hardly proper at all. He didn’t deserve to be in her company. He was using her for the comfort she gave him, for the trust she’d bestowed upon him.

Once again, he was responsible for someone who deserved far better than him.

Alasdair ran a hand through his hair. Last night, things had seemed so—different.
Special. But this morning, the harsh ugly truth of his life stood out as clearly as the freshly painted sign indicating a pub.

It couldn’t hurt, could it, to go in and have a drink? Without questioning it further, he strode toward the inn, his pace almost frantic, his coat flapping behind him. The sun had emerged and was fighting a battle with a few ominous clouds.

“What’ll it be, then?” the barkeep asked, almost as soon as Alasdair had entered the building and stood blinking in the sudden darkness. Even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock in the morning, there were at least four men in various stages of inebriation scattered around the pub.

Alasdair took a seat at the table closest to the door. From here, he could see the inn. If she woke, and went looking for him, he’d spot her right away. “Whiskey,” he replied.

Within minutes, he’d downed half the glass, its fiery warmth burning a hole in his stomach. “Another?” the barkeep asked.

“No, th—,” Alasdair began to reply, then realized the man was speaking to what looked like the least drunk of the other patrons. The man nodded, swept his drink up from the bar, and pulled a chair up to Alasdair’s table.

“You’re not from around here.”

“No.” Alasdair finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers still smelled of her. Why did the thought of her make his throat tighten? Scare him?

“You need something, you come to Nick. That’s me.” The man winked. “Women, papers, something stronger than that whiskey there. I got it.”

“Anything?”

***

Until a month ago, she’d never slept past six. She thought it was already past eight o’clock, although it was cloudy outside. The noises of the day leaked through their window; the rumble of carriage wheels, shouts of children, a woman yelling “Polly”—all normal village noises. It was comforting, and it sounded like home. But now? Now home
was with him.

She turned her head on the pillow and regarded him. Asleep, the hard lines on his face receded. He looked younger than he did awake, although no less beautiful. The clean, angled planes of his face revealed his bone structure: the high, slashing cheekbones, his strong jaw, the arrogant nose.

Looking at him, it was hard to believe the past few days had really happened. But she knew they had—long after he’d fallen asleep last night, she’d lain awake, thinking about what had changed. And what hadn’t changed at all.

He was still arrogant, addicted, changeable. She enjoyed his company, obviously, and more, but could she trust him?

Up to a certain point, of course, but with herself? Her future?

She gave him one last look, then rose from the bed, careful not to jostle him. He muttered something in his sleep, but rolled over onto his side without waking. He truly was handsome, and she reveled in how he made her feel. Even if it was just for now.

For the first time since her father’s death, she felt … happy. She still wasn’t sure what the future held, but for now, she was happy.

Mary picked her clothing up from the floor, blushing as she saw her shift lying in a heap at the end of the bed. She’d dress quickly and go out to get some breakfast, maybe pick some of the flowers they’d tromped through on the way into town. Before they were married. Before last night.

Mary found his coat lying on the floor, not where she’d hung it the night before. She frowned, but shrugged and felt inside his breast pocket. She’d seen him put the money there, and she just needed a bit of change for her errand.

She pulled out the few items in his pocket, the coins jingling in her hand. Along with a small vial of—she stared at the bottle, frozen.

***

“What—what are you doing?” Alasdair’s head throbbed. The morning light streamed through the curtains, silhouetting Mary, who was standing at the table. She was fully dressed, and had his coat in her hands.

She turned to look at him, her expression unforgiving. Or was that his guilty conscience? “I am leaving.”

Her words stabbed into his gut. “Why?” He raised himself up in the bed, shaking his head to clear it. It didn’t work.

“Was I—was it …?” He rubbed his face with his hands, unable to put it into words: that he was beginning to care for her. “If so, I apologize.” His heart constricted. Did she still think their marriage was a mistake?

“Exactly,” she said. “That is the problem. I cannot trust my life, myself, to you.”

The words woke him as all his head-shaking couldn’t. He scrambled out of bed, barely noticing he was naked.

He clasped a hand on her arm. She glared at it, then at him. Anger glinted in her eyes. “You knew before, what—what I am.”

She removed his hand from her arm. “Yes, but my father always said true goodness is not who you are, but who you want to be. And you wanted to be—” She stopped and shook her head. “And this morning,” she finished in a broken voice.

She placed the vial on the table like a judgment.

He grabbed her arm back and gripped it tight. “Your father was a rutting cur who left his daughter alone with his blackguard son. Who sold you to me, if you recall.” He held on to the back of the chair so he wouldn’t fall. God help him if she left.

“Do you think I haven’t done anything but think about that?” Her voice shook. “But my father’s indiscretion doesn’t mean he was wrong about everything.”

Alasdair could hear the hurt in her voice. “What were you going to say?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” She opened her eyes and looked at him so intently he flinched. “When you welcomed me to hell, I didn’t think it would be this bad. I’ve been accused of being too optimistic”—she laughed wryly—“but I don’t think I am anymore.”

No one had ever told him no. And who was she to deny him? Damn her.

He glared at her, willing her to change her mind. She regarded him with a mournful look in her eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment there.

“I can’t help you, my lord, not if you succumb as easily as this.” Her voice broke toward the end.

“You cannot leave me.” He was ashamed at how needy he sounded. How could she do this to him? He’d just made a mistake. An awful mistake.

Her face crumpled at his words, but when she spoke, her tone was implacable. “I can. I must.” She continued, in a tone so low he could barely hear her. “I cannot hope to change people if they do not wish to be changed.”

She yanked her cloak from the chair and draped it around her shoulders, not looking at him as she pulled it across her chest. “You will be fine, my lord, and I will reimburse you for the mon—”

“Damn the money!” Alasdair slammed his fist down on the table. “I made a mistake. I am well aware. But you cannot go off on your own. Your half brother is still out there, did you forget? And my cousin, if he finds you, how kind will he be to the woman who tied him to a bed?”

She finally met his eyes. He knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth. “I have to leave. You know that.” She held her hands out as if the gesture would explain what her words couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

He didn’t understand. Not at all. He knew he’d tried to save her, tried to protect her from what would hurt her, only it had turned out what she needed protecting from was him. Just like Judith.

“Go, then.” He turned back to the bed and sat down. “Just go.”

He heard the soft swish of fabric, the turn of the lock, and the door as it swung shut behind her.

He dropped onto the bed and covered his eyes with his hands.

She closed the door softly behind her. She hated herself for pausing to see if he would come after her.

Nothing but silence.

For at least a mile, she couldn’t stop asking herself “Will he be all right?” She should be wondering if
she
would be all right: Did she have enough money; could she make her way to the mail coach safely; what would her mother say when she finally arrived in London?

But Mary couldn’t rid herself of the image of his face, his stricken expression, so different from the arrogant aristocrat she’d come to know. And … she had to forget about all that now. She dug into her pockets and found the roll of bills she’d taken from his pocket. She pulled them out, glancing around to make sure no one was around. Not a soul in sight.

There was enough here to take the mail coach to London, feed her along the way, and leave her with some emergency money.

That
should
relieve some of her anxiety. She wished it did.

It was just past nine o’clock. Early in the day for your life to irrevocably change. Again. The sunlight filtered through the trees overhanging the dirt track she was on. She heard birds chirping, and water running, a bit more distantly.

The sun was heating her back, and she stopped to remove her cloak, looping it over her arm. “I will be fine,” she announced. She flung her head back and squinted at the sun. “I will be fine!” she yelled, and heard the clamor of startled birds.

“Sorry,” she muttered, then chuckled. She didn’t have to apologize to anyone, not anymore.

She was free—on her own, with notes stolen from a lord, newly bought shoes, her father’s Donne book, and her mother’s name. On the way to London.

“Free!” she yelled into the trees. She didn’t sound as joyous now. She frowned. It
was
the right thing to do, leaving him.

She enumerated the reasons in her head, wishing she were as ruthless as he was, so she could walk away and be done with it.

He breaks his promises. Frequently.

He is addicted to something that makes him behave as if he were mad—so mad he would deign to marry an illegitimate vicar’s daughter and not ravish her when he had the chance.

Her walk slowed. He is arrogant, high-handed, irascible. And charming, intelligent, and witty.

And she wanted him. Was that the real reason she’d run from him? Because she couldn’t trust him—or herself?

She stopped dead in her tracks. She couldn’t trust his actions. She had to remember that every time she thought about his green eyes, or how he teased her about using her book as a weapon, or how he’d sounded when he told her about his family.

She began walking, more slowly now, humming one of her father’s favorite hymns. One of the innkeeper’s stable boys had pointed her toward the place where the mail coach stopped, at another inn just a few miles down the road. She hoped she’d be there by lunchtime, and she could rest and wait for the next coach to take her to London.

It wasn’t the best plan, but it was, indeed, a plan.

Three hours later, her plan didn’t seem quite as plannish as it had before—she was perspiring, her left foot had a blister from her new shoes, and her stomach was clamoring to be fed. “Soon, soon,” she muttered, peering up ahead at the road to see if she could catch sight of her destination. She spied a curl of smoke—from a chimney, she hoped, not a fire—and quickened her pace, trying to ignore her various aches and pains.

“Welcome, miss,” a man said as she approached the inn. “Can I help you?” Mary was grateful he didn’t seem to think it odd a woman was walking on her own up to his establishment.

“I would like a meal, and can you tell me when the next mail coach arrives?”

He glanced at the sky, where the merciless sun was still beating down. “Coach will come in about two hours,” he said. “Plenty of time for my missus to feed you. You look like you could use a good meal.”

Mary almost looked behind her to see who he was talking to. She’d never been
accused of being too thin before.

She followed the man into the inn, allowing him to take her cloak, and sat down with a grateful sigh at one of the long wooden tables in the common area.

“Here’s my wife, she’ll set you up,” the innkeeper said, hanging her cloak on a hook near the bar.

A woman bustled up, wiping her hands on her apron. “Can I get you something, miss?” Her face was round, very round, and Mary could see why the innkeeper thought Mary was too thin. This woman was large all over, with a wide, friendly smile. “I’ve got a nice meat pie just fresh out of the oven.”

Mary’s stomach growled in response. “Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” Mary said, feeling her cheeks get flushed. The woman nodded in satisfaction and headed back toward the kitchen.

“You’re a bit—should you be traveling by yourself, miss?” The innkeeper’s voice was so kindly and caring Mary was tempted to burst into tears and tell him everything. He was a definite change after the ill-tempered proprietors she and Alasdair—her throat closed over.