Nearly a Lady (27 page)

Those words stung, but they didn’t wound the way his behavior by the bridge had wounded. In part because she knew them to have been spoken in anger, but mostly because it wasn’t a judgment of her. But the sentiment did give her pause. They reminded her that it often took more than hard work to obtain what was wanted. A person could tug on a carrot all day and not make it grow any faster or provide its bounty any quicker. One could water and feed and weed, but in the end, the need for time and patience could not be circumvented.

A man might be fond of a woman, be attracted to that woman, and yet be appalled at the notion of marrying her after only a few weeks’ acquaintance. That made sense. It wasn’t at all flattering, but it was reasonable.

She needed to be reasonable in return. She had been willing to fight for what she wanted; now she would need to be willing to wait as well, and accept that there was still a great deal for the both of them to learn of each other.

She could do that . . . Probably . . . Possibly.

Her store of courage was not infinite. She could push her fears aside as often as she liked, but they would always find a way to make themselves known—a way to eat at her resolve.

Whether he knew her for a sennight or a decade, she might never be the sort of woman Gideon would want to marry.

She wasn’t beautiful, or educated, or charming. She wasn’t a lady. She’d stolen a locket, and played cards with a thief, and kept company with a goat.

She wasn’t the sort of person anyone had ever wanted to keep.

“Lilly did,” she whispered in the empty room. Someone had wanted her before; someone could want her again. With a bit of time and work—and provided, of course, that it was still what
she
wanted—that someone might be Gideon.

G
ideon wasn’t in search of a drink . . . not exclusively. He wanted a few moments alone as well. He needed the time and space to rein in his temper, sort through his disjointed thoughts, and marshal his flagging determination to do what was right. He would apologize for his behavior, and then he would send Winnefred back to her room.

He found his drink in the tavern, where a few patrons sat apart from each other in moody silence. He wanted to join them, to take a seat by the fire and drink himself into oblivion. He purchased a bottle instead and took the first long drink in the stairwell on his way back upstairs.

Twice.
Twice
in one day he had lost himself in the memories of war. And twice in one day he had taken his troubles out on Winnefred.

It was a miracle the woman wasn’t headed back to Murdoch House right now, eating his raw heart along the way.

He rubbed at his chest where an ache had been nagging since he’d realized how badly he had wounded her feelings by the bridge. She’d made a small, harmless jest about being betrothed and, like an utter bastard, he’d responded by nearly swallowing his tongue in horror.

Oh, she’d pretended not to care. She had affected a careless demeanor, and then she had laughed and forgiven him. But he’d seen the hurt in her eyes, and the way her skin had paled beneath the freckles. She hadn’t been able to hide that. And he hadn’t been able to find the words, nor the courage, to make things right. How could he explain his fears without explaining his reasons for them? How could he tell her a part of him, a small, selfish part of him, had indulged, just for a moment here and there, in the daydream of courting her, of
keeping
her? How could he admit to that and not tell her why the better part of him would never allow it to happen?

He couldn’t. No more, apparently, than he could keep himself from being a bastard all over again. And this time, he’d not be able to smooth things over with a silly jest.

What had he been thinking?

His hand clenched around the bottle. He knew damn well what he had been thinking—that she had pulled him from the pain of his memories yet again. That she had looked as beautiful dripping wet and worried by the stream as she had laughing on a moonlit road in Scotland, and twice again as beautiful standing in his room with the light of the fireplace dancing along the gold strands in her braid. He’d been thinking that he had never wanted to grab hold of a woman so desperately in his life. And he’d been terrified what would become of the both of them if he did. He’d had to do something, anything, to make her leave.

And so he had cut her with careless words. She had stood her ground, but he’d watched her shrink before his eyes, which was equally effective in dousing the flames of ardor as it turned out.

He paused outside his room and thought about having another drink, but he pushed the temptation aside and opened the door. Oh, he planned on indulging in another drink or two, or possibly half a dozen. But he would face Winnefred sober.

He found her just as he had left her—standing in the middle of the room. Unable to bring himself to meet her gaze, he busied himself with locking the door behind him. When stalling failed to settle the gnawing in his gut, he caved and took the bottle to a small writing desk to pour a drink. Two would hardly render him drunk, he reasoned. It might render him something of a coward, but not a drunk.

“Why don’t you sit down, Winnefred?”

“I’ve done enough sitting for one day, thank you.”

He finished the liquid in a single swallow, blew out a long breath, and turned to look at her. She didn’t appear to be angry or insulted as he felt she really ought. She looked heartbreakingly vulnerable . . . and very, very determined.

“You’ve been hiding a great well of patience,” he said softly. “You should have slapped me and been done with it.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “The temptation was there. But you looked to be adequately slapped already. I don’t approve of kicking a man when he’s on the ground.”

He set down his empty glass. “Even when he deserves it?”

“No one deserves it.”

“Oh, there are men who do,” he assured her. And the fact she wasn’t aware of that only threw the differences between them into sharper contrast. She shouldn’t be here, he thought. He had no business dragging her further into the ugliness of his past. “I apologize for my behavior. There is no excuse—”

“I will accept your apology,” she broke in, and to his considerable dismay, she crossed the room to stand before him, “if you will tell me what put you in such a state.”

He shook his head and suddenly wished the desk was not set against the wall. There was nowhere for him to retreat. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Your concern, and your patience, are appreciated, Winnefred, but—” Without thinking, he caught her arm when she would have turned away from him in obvious frustration. “I do not mean that to sound so much like a dismissal. I am grateful for your concern. I am, truly. But the dreams . . .”

He would have to tell her something, he realized. It was foolish and selfish to expect her to walk away now with nothing more than another apology and evasion. He let his arm fall and bunched his hand into a fist.

“You are right,” he heard himself say. “They are dreams of war.”

She nodded again. “Is it the same dream every time?”

“Yes. No.” He didn’t know how to explain. He’d never tried before. “It is the same battle, the same . . .”
The same boys
. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back. “It is the same people. The same day. The dreams change.”

“Is it the battle in which you were injured?”

He shook his head and leapt at the chance to change the topic. “That came months before, in a small skirmish off the coast of Spain. Took six men to pull me out from under a yardarm.”

She tilted her head at him. “You sound proud.”

“I am, of my men.” Here, at least, was one story he could tell. “They pulled me free in the midst of battle. Lord Emmeret lifted with one hand and used the other to pull out his pistol and fire a shot . . . I had fine men.”

“It doesn’t sound a small skirmish.”

“It was, in the grand scheme of war.”

“And the battle you dream of?” she asked softly. “What was it in the grand scheme?”

“Of the war? A moderate clash.” In his life, it was everything.

“And the people you spoke of, they were lost in the battle?”

“Yes.”

“And you cared for them.”

His next words came without thought. “I should have done.”

A line formed across her brow. “I don’t understand.”

And she shouldn’t, he thought. She should never be asked to understand. He shook his head. “Perhaps another time, Winnefred.”

He waited for her to argue, but she surprised him by stepping close and placing her hand against his cheek. “I am very sorry, Gideon.”

He reached up, intending to draw her hand away, and found himself holding on instead. She looked at him with such kindness, such understanding . . . such beauty.

It was tempting, unbearably tempting, to lose himself in those soft amber eyes. If he thought of nothing but that, nothing but the beauty of her, he could pull her closer. He could bend his head and cover her warm mouth with his own. For a time, he could forget everything else, everything but her.

It would have been simpler if she had argued.

Through a force of will he didn’t know he possessed, he drew her hand from his face, gave it a gentle squeeze, and let it go. “I’m sorry as well.”

 

A flurry of questions raced through Winnefred’s mind, and she ruthlessly shoved each and every one of them away. She had come to Gideon’s room determined that he would tell her something of what troubled him, and she had accomplished that. He dreamt of war and of the people who fought beside him. That was enough for one night.

Time and work, she reminded herself.

Still, she hesitated a second before she turned around and headed for the door. She’d never shied from work, but waiting on time had always been a problematic endeavor for her.

“Winnefred?”

“Yes?” She turned back to find him watching her with a steady, unflinching gaze.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You are important to me as well.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, smiled, and left.

She had taken a chance tonight, pushing her way into his room and into his privacy, but the way her heart sang at the sound of those seven simple words told her it had been worth the risk.

T
he following morning, Winnefred stepped out on the front steps of the inn to find the carriage and outriders ready and waiting, and Gideon sitting on a small stone bench at the side of the yard. A large dog with a shaggy black coat, cropped tail, and floppy ears rolled about at his feet. Gideon bent over and indulged the animal with a hearty scratch of the belly.

“You can’t take him home,” she called out, descending the steps to meet him.

He straightened and looked at her, squinting into the sun. “Good morning, Winnefred.”

“Good morning.” She took a seat next to him and stroked the dog’s head when he stood up to nuzzle at her knee. “How do you fare today?”

He gave her a wry smile. “That is the question I intended to ask you.”

“Not quite as well as yesterday morning.” The euphoria had returned but was markedly decreased in intensity. “But no doubt better than I shall this afternoon.”

“We’ll stop often. Whenever you like.”

“Hmm.”

A short, weighted silence hung between them until Gideon jerked his chin toward the dog and said, quite out of the blue, “Do you suppose his tail ever itches?”