Sweet as the Devil (19 page)

So she read a bit and slept a little and drank some wine after a struggle with a troublesome cork. But it was an unremittingly boring day; she didn’t look forward to another as monotonous. She would have to accost Jamie when next they stopped and see that he gave her leave to ride for at least part of the time. She wished to ask him as well if they were approaching the Lake Country where her mother was on holiday.

To her surprise, though, they didn’t stop again, other than for a brief halt where she was offered the opportunity to relieve herself behind a screen of bushes. Douglas and Robbie kept a discreet distance but clearly were on guard.

When she returned to the carriage, she was offered a wet towel. “For ye, my lady,” Douglas said with a small bow.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the towel from him. “You think of everything.”

He grinned. “Orders, miss.”

Her surprise showed for a moment. “I shall have to thank him then,” she said. “The baron is most hospitable.”

“The bonny boy could put an army in the field, miss.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, miss. Like his father afore him. Now, we won’t be stoppin’ again unless ye call out.”

Sofia marveled at the horses’ stamina as the day wore on. Prime bloodstock indeed; the teams must have been bred for endurance. Left with nothing to do, she resorted to another book. A shame no one had thought to include a French romance or two. Julius Caesar’s
Conquest of Gaul
turned out to be sufficiently engrossing, however, and when the cavalcade finally stopped, she took note of the time on the carriage clock with surprise.

Half past seven, the sun still high in the sky with midsummer only weeks away.

Stretching languorously, she turned to look out the window and her spirits brightened. Jamie was directly in her line of vision, handing his reins to an ostler and apparently saying something amusing, for the man threw his head back and laughed. The baron stripped off his gloves as he talked, and he must have been issuing instructions, for the ostler was intermittently nodding. A few moments later, the nodding stopped, Jamie clapped the man on the shoulder, said something more that made the ostler smile, then he turned and spoke to one of his troopers.

He wore his hair longer than fashion dictated, Sofia noted. A light breeze was ruffling his dark curls, already disheveled after a night and day on the road.

As if responding to her thoughts, Jamie swept his fingers through his hair in a quick, cursory gesture, and she sucked in her breath, the intimate gesture conjuring up roseate hopes. How would those strong hands feel on her body? How gentle or ungentle was his touch? How calloused were his hands?
Oh God, stop
, she chided herself. Such foolishness was adolescent.

This was simply a job for Blackwood
—she
was simply a matter of business for him.

He’d made that perfectly clear.

But
perfectly clear
aside, was she not at least allowed a purely artistic assessment since he was standing within yards of her—big as life?
Of course
, a selfish little voice whispered in her ear.
You’re an artist, after all. A professional artist.

How easy it was to be convinced when Blackwood presented such a handsome subject. He was standing, large and magnificent, beside his sleek black thoroughbred under a cloudless sky, a bustling village street in the background, his troopers surrounding him. A perfectly lovely narrative painting. She’d title it
The End of the Hunt
with everyone dismounting and milling about. Hunting scenes were much in demand.

Naturally, a central focal point was required in any composition.

In this case, the tall, handsome ADC to Prince Ernst would do. He stood just left of center in the scene, looking splendidly male as usual, tautly muscled beneath his expensive tailoring: his coat was open as if he were relaxing after a long day in the hunting field, his shirt collar unbuttoned, the tanned column of his throat meeting his dark chest hair in the vee of his open shirt.

She let her gaze drift downward, surveying his lean torso and flat stomach, coming to rest for a moment on the faint swell evident beneath the placket of his snug riding pants. Even inert his virility was unmistakable, although it wasn’t possible to realistically portray his sizeable cock unless the painting was for private viewing. Not exactly a rarity in the art world; erotic paintings had always been commissioned by collectors.

Then again, perhaps she might have a private viewing of her own should Blackwood have a change of heart. She grinned. Never say never.

Although he certainly was proving a difficult quarry. At which point he walked away, moving out of view as though to underscore the fact.

Sofia was escorted into the travelers’ hotel by her two guards, the large structure typical of many that had sprung up in England with the advent of good roads and in some cases, the railroad. A bustling lobby, numerous palms in large pots, a haze of cigar smoke, portly men in suits reading the papers or conversing in boisterous voices greeted the eye as they entered the lobby.

Apparently, Douglas and Robbie knew their destination, for they walked through the large columned room without stopping, although her garb drew a few sharp glances. From there, she was led upstairs and into a commodious suite situated at the end of a short stairway and narrow hall in the rear of the hotel. “Jamie thought ye’d be likin’ the peace a’ quiet,” Douglas said.
Jamie also thought the isolated entrance would assure that the two guards at my door draw no attention.
“Yer dinner is ordered, a’ if ye need ought”—he jerked a thumb toward the door—“we’re outside.”

After he and Robbie left, Sofia surveyed her lodgings. A large sitting room, a bedroom through the door to her right, even a bathroom, she discovered after walking into the bedroom. A tub, a loo, running water. All the amenities.

A bath would be lovely. Even more lovely would be a change of clothes. She would have to ask about purchasing some tomorrow. Flopping down on the large four-poster bed, she stared up at the pleated canopy and wondered what her elusive protector was doing.

Hiding, apparently, she decided, which in itself
might
be a small triumph. On the other hand, she reminded herself, he was playing the ascetic. Why would he put himself in her way?

She was no nearer an answer when her dinner was carried in by a servant who gave no indication that a woman dressed in male clothes was unusual. He said, with a deference prompted by Jamie’s brief directive and lavish tip, “Dinner, miss. Where would you like me to put it?”

Sofia waved him over to the table near the window, and the slim, middle-aged man in the ubiquitous black of the serving class set out her meal, opened the bottle of champagne, lifted the covers on several dishes, and with the grave formality granted royalty, asked her if she required anything more.

She smiled, said, “Thank you, no,” and surmised that the man’s fulsome courtesy was attributable to the evasive Lord Blackwood. She knew very well her manner of dress was unconventional.
Like everything else in my life at the moment
, she lamented as the door closed on the servant.

Alone again
, she pensively mused. A social creature at heart and much in demand in the fashionable world, she half smiled and wondered what Blackwood would have said if she’d asked to bring a lover along for company. Her smile broadened at the dramatic possibilities. What would he have said to Dex, for instance?

With a soft chuckle, she turned to her dinner. The delicacies in the picnic basket aside, she was hungry again. Sitting down at the table, she spread a crisp white linen napkin in her lap and surveyed her small feast. The food was simple but excellent: beefsteak, lamb cutlets, creamed asparagus, fresh peas, two puddings—one treacle, the other a strawberry cream. And, of course, the champagne.

J
AMIE AND HIS men ate dinner in a private parlor. The troop was ostensibly a group of friends traveling north for hunting. Everyone wore civilian dress, their weapons were concealed, their native Scot’s accent useful for their masquerade. A German accent would have turned heads.

Not that Jamie had explained any more than required to the desk clerk; offering too much information only raised suspicion. But in the privacy of their parlor, the business of the day was discussed in a glib polyglot of languages—their linguistic fluency necessary when the prince traveled so extensively.

Since everyone would be standing guard duty at some point that night, no one drank to excess. But the men were Scots by blood if not circumstance, so even with the restrictions on intake, a good deal of liquor was consumed. With the exception of Jamie. Coffee was his beverage of choice, although even that went largely untouched.

Such curious behavior raised figurative eyebrows among his colleagues. Aqua vitae,
uisge beatha
—whiskey was the water of life to a Scot, and Jamie had never been an abstainer. But after his moody withdrawal earlier in the day and his solitary ride in advance of the troop, not to mention his unusual reticence at dinner, no one put voice to their thoughts. Until a young trooper who’d indulged his taste for whiskey more than most blurted out the question on everyone’s mind. “It ain’t like ye, Jamie.” He jabbed his finger at the coffee cup. “Have ye taken the temperance pledge?”

Jamie looked up and smiled slightly. “I’m just tired.”

Archie McDougal grinned. “That niver stopped ye afore.”

“It has tonight,” Jamie said precisely.

And everyone knew the subject was closed. Although the men had their own ideas why he wasn’t drinking, and it had nothing to do with fatigue.

Jamie continued lounging in his chair at the head of the table while his men’s conversation eddied around him, the sounds of their voices muted at times by the white noise of an idea whose time had come. An idea he was unwilling to consider. At other times, he’d participate in the conversation and banter, adding a comment or quip, a judgment on some matter at hand, but by and large, his mind was elsewhere. He’d pick up his coffee cup and set it down again without drinking, idly twirl the signet ring on his finger, trace the carving on his chair arm, and if someone asked him a direct question, he’d look up as though he’d come awake from a dead sleep.

And so he remained—challenged by that idea whose time had come, trying hard not to offend his sense of duty.

Or bring on disaster.

Until the case clock in the corner suddenly chimed the hour.

He looked up at the sound, drew in a small breath, and came to his feet. He stood perfectly still for a moment, immune to the numerous glances trained on him, to the hush in the room. Then his green gaze focused. “I’m going to turn in early,” he mildly said, surveying his men. “I’ll see you all at seven.”

As the door shut behind him, Archie smirked. “Damn. I dinna think he’d last this long.”

“Nor go withoot ev’ a wee dram to drink.”

“Dinna want to disappoint the leddy, I ken,” another trooper said with a grin.

Someone down the end of the table said, “He can drink all night an’ still be right brisk with the leddies.”

“Not this one, though, eh?”

Every eye swivelled to Duncan Scott. The concept of personal feelings for a female was quite outside the pale when it came to Jamie’s love life.

“Ye’re drunk,” Archie hotly accused.

“Aye, but he hasna looked her way since mornin’. Ain’t like ’im. More like a grass green striplin’ it be.”

“Stupid twit. As if himself ain’t long past stripling games.” Archie pelted Duncan with the bread in his hand. “Half-wit muttonhead.”

His playful barrage was taken up with gusto by every man at the table, escalating ridicule and adding to the raucous pastime until Duncan, laughing, finally threw up his hands in surrender. His hair was crumb splattered, his grin a flash of his strong white teeth. “Fook ye all. I’m right, ye’ll see. Now hand over the bottle. I’ve a mighty thirst.”

The entertainment was over as quickly as it had begun, and conversation turned to other matters.

 

 

W
HILE HIS MEN had turned to other matters, Jamie was in his suite stripping off his clothes, running water in the bathtub, and telling himself to find another woman if that’s what he needed. But he didn’t need a woman in general but one in particular, and try as he might to evict that lunatic thought from his brain, try as he did to persuade himself to be reasonable, before long he was bathed, dressed, and making his way to the suite of rooms at the back of the hotel.

Douglas and Robbie were resting comfortably on the floor flanking Sofia’s door, their backs against the wall, their legs crossed at the ankles. At Jamie’s approach, they came to their feet. “Evenin, sair,” they said in unison.

Jamie came to a stop at the door. “No activity I hope.”