The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (16 page)

“There you be.” Brenda smiled, then her expression grew concerned. “Have you eaten, miss? My lord?”

Dominic shook his head. “We ended at the theater.” Brenda and Mulley would be up at dawn; he noticed the glance Angelica threw him, hoped he read it correctly. “Just a light supper will do.”

“Indeed, yes.” Angelica smiled at Brenda. “We had game pie for lunch, so whatever you can put together quickly will do.”

“I'll set the table in the dining parlor, shall I?” Mulley reached for a tray.

Angelica hesitated for only a second. “Yes, that might be best.”

Having the length of the dining table between her and Dominic struck her as a very wise move. Ever since those fraught moments in the pit—moments she couldn't get out of her head—he'd been watching her . . . she was starting to feel like a hunted deer.

He was a highlander; she was quite sure he hunted deer.

Despite her very real desire to learn more about that side of their pending relationship, the side she was perfectly certain was on his mind, she was heart-thumpingly sure that she wasn't up to dealing with more revelations on that subject tonight. She had no idea why she was so skitteringly nervous; she only knew she was. For once—possibly for the first time in her life—
all
her instincts were urging caution and retreat.

She followed Mulley to the breakfast parlor they'd been using as a dining room. Every step of the way she was intensely aware of Dominic prowling behind her. Mulley set her place and moved up the table. She walked to her chair and felt Dominic draw near; he was so damned huge, all hard muscle, that he literally radiated heat enough for her sensitized nerves to detect.

He halted. She felt his presence like a warm wash down her back.

Moving slowly—as her senses reminded her he had on the terrace when he'd almost been ready to pounce—he drew out her chair.

She sat, let him settle her.

Waited until he walked, long-legged stride fluid and slow, to the other end of the table before she exhaled.

She told herself her reaction was nonsensical, but, after sitting himself, he looked down the table and met her gaze . . . she looked into his eyes, sharply intent gray-on-green, and knew she hadn't misread the direction of his thoughts.

He and she were destined, at some point, to be man and wife, after all.

Brenda hurried in with a soup tureen. Mulley followed with two plates made up with bread, sliced roast beef, and portions of an egg, bacon, leek, and cheese flan.

“Lovely—thank you.” Angelica found a smile for Brenda as the maid ladled a rich broth into her soup bowl. “This will be more than enough.”

“Aye, well, we've only got breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and then we'll be gone, so I want to use up all that we have.”

After serving Dominic, Brenda withdrew, following Mulley out and back to the kitchen . . . leaving Angelica alone with her prospective husband.

She kept her eyes on her soup as she supped, but she could feel his gaze. Could feel the silence thicken—could all but sense their mutual awareness reaching over the table, colliding, twining, then his reached for her while hers reached for him—

“I enjoyed today. I have to thank you for going with me. You were right—it wouldn't have been the same with Thomas. The fish market was such an experience—not one I have any ambition to repeat, but still not one I would have liked to have missed. The crowds, the smells—let alone all the noise. Why . . .”

Dominic ate, watched, and listened. Whenever she paused—only ever for a second—as if expecting some comment from him, he hmmed, or grunted, and, apparently satisfied, she rolled on with her catalog of the day's highlights.

He wondered if she knew she was babbling.

And if she knew how revealing that was.

He seriously doubted she was a female who often babbled, but the intensity of the desire that—courtesy of their adventure at the theater—was now all but crackling between them had reduced her to it.

Despite knowing that that sensual storm wasn't emanating from him alone, her reaction to it gave him pause.

He recognized her response—it was very like that of a half-broken filly shying at the saddle. She wanted to step forward and learn what it was like, but simultaneously was leery over what she might lose, of what accepting might mean for her.

In that, she was wise. Becoming his wife in fact would change her life irreversibly and irrevocably.

And while that result would be the same regardless of when they consummated their now-fated union, it was, he suspected, her very intelligence—a characteristic for which he had to give thanks—that had her stepping back. Wanting to look before she leaped. Wanting to think things through, first.

He couldn't blame her for that.

Although he wanted nothing more than to stand, walk down the table, haul her up out of her chair, and kiss her until she melted against him, until she didn't just allow but welcomed him—nay, begged him to sink his throbbing shaft deep into the hot haven of her body—he reined the near-brutal impulse back.

Only to discover how much effort that took. Normally his appetites, although as large as he was, nevertheless remained entirely under his control. Tonight, with her, after the too-tantalizing day, that control was . . . tenuous. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any other, perhaps because she'd agreed to be his wife.

Regardless . . .

Lifting his gaze from his empty plate, he looked down the table.

She'd finished her meal, laid her cutlery down. Hands in her lap, she was staring at a spot midway down the table while her tongue ran on. “And”—she paused to draw a tight breath, which only succeeded in focusing his attention on her severely bound breasts, a situation his ravenously sexual self wanted to rectify
now
—“of course, I've always wanted to visit the pit at the Theatre Royal.”

The thready neediness in her voice, the way she shifted in her seat . . . his hunter's instinct to seize—seize
now
—bucked hard against his control.

“Stop.” His voice was deep, raw with suppressed passion, but he couldn't do anything about that.

Startled, she looked up, met his eyes.

He held her gaze, then, as evenly as he could, stated, “It's late. I suggest you retire. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Fixed on his face, on what she could no doubt sense, if not see, her eyes had widened. She hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yes. Of course. You're right.” Gripping the table, she edged her chair back. “I'll . . . ah, go up.”

She rose without taking her eyes from him. Then she turned and walked to the door. She opened it, paused, then, without glancing back, said, “Good night.”

And left.

He watched the door close behind her. “
Good night
?” She wouldn't have understood the word he said next. He waited until he heard her footsteps climb the stairs, forced himself to remain seated until he heard the door of the countess's sitting room close.

Only then did he rise. Grim-faced, he crossed to the sideboard, hunted inside, and found a bottle of whisky and a glass. Bringing both back to the table, he flung himself into his chair, opened the bottle, and poured himself a dram. Or two.

Restoppering the bottle, he reached for the glass, drank, and felt the smoky burn slide down his throat. On a sigh, he leaned back.

And considered his options.

He could have her anytime he wished—tonight if he so desired. Her interest in him, in having him bed her, was all but palpable; if he pushed, she would yield.

But all things considered and appropriately weighed, was that the best way forward, for him, with her?

Or was waiting for her to come to him—for her to agree to marry him, make the first move, and invite his possession—a preferable path?

He sipped, debated; it didn't take much consideration to conclude that, for him, with her, the latter was the wiser choice.

Given her character, which he was increasingly aware was disturbingly similar to his own, then him going to her—essentially taking the decision out of her hands—would leave that decision undeclared.

She was in many ways his equal; he had to keep that in mind. Defining their future joint life, and how they were to live and interact with each other, was indeed going to be a complex negotiation; the last thing he needed was to leave her with the advantage of not having openly declared her wishes vis-à-vis the physical side of their union.

His best way forward was, unquestionably, to wait for her to make the first move.

So now, tonight, would be a strategic blunder.

And possibly not only on that front.

Reclaiming the goblet was too important for him to allow himself to be distracted, and while he might not want to admit it, even to himself, although he'd never been distracted by any bed-partner before, she was different.

And not only because she would be his wife.

“And that,” he said, reaching for the bottle, “is a very troubling fact.”

Resupplied with whisky, he sipped, thought.

Finally, he drained his glass, set it on the table, pushed back his chair and rose.

She'd left him when he'd told her to, and in that she'd been wise.

And in doing so she'd given him the opportunity to exercise some wisdom of his own.

Until they won back the goblet and he had it once more in his hands, he and she would simply have to live with the itch that had flared and now afflicted them.

And even after that, he would play safe and wait for her to give in and openly declare that she wanted him in her bed.

Much
safer on all counts.

Leaving the parlor, he climbed the stairs, passed the door to her room, and headed for his own, although he still couldn't see even the remotest prospect of him having anything resembling a good night.

Chapter Eight

T
hey reached the Bull and Mouth Inn off Aldersgate as dusk was tinting the sky. The yard was a-bustle with people rushing everywhere, some leaving, others arriving, all lugging bags and portmanteau. Horses and coaches stood at points around the roughly square yard, some disgorging passengers and luggage, others being loaded up. The inn itself surrounded the yard on three sides, a four-story structure with open galleries on the upper floors overlooking the chaos and cacophony of the yard.

Angelica came to an abrupt halt just inside the open end of the yard. Her bag in one hand, eyes wide, she looked this way, then that, trying to take everything in; the Bull and Mouth was another noisy and colorful pocket of London she'd never seen or even known existed.

“This way.” Grasping her elbow, Dominic propelled her on—the first time he'd touched her since those moments in the theater. She nearly tripped; he held her upright, but immediately she caught her balance and started forward, he released her. “The door beside the office.”

Lips tight, she changed tack, avoiding the long queue snaking out of the office; just as well they'd purchased their papers earlier. With Dominic alongside her subtly clearing the way, they tacked through the crowd.

They'd avoided each other all through the day; what words they'd exchanged had been purely practical. Yet the instant he'd touched her, when she'd heard his voice low and close, now he was so near once more, her senses had flared again, every bit as hotly as before.

A quick look at his face confirmed that the rigidly impassive mask he'd redonned that morning was firmly in place. Determined not to allow her unsettlingly uncharacteristic uncertainty to show, she ruthlessly suppressed her reaction and forged on. Reaching the door, she opened it and walked through—into the inn proper.

An even more intense cacophony assaulted her. The large main room was packed with humanity, eating, talking, laughing, shouting. Even the smells were manifold, but she couldn't halt and take stock; with Dominic at her back she moved into the melee, but then he tweaked the back of her greatcoat. She turned, then followed him as he pushed through to where a harassed-looking clerk sat at a window set in the wall shared with the adjacent office.

Dominic set their papers on the counter. “Two for the Edinburgh mail.”

The clerk inspected the papers, ticked two places on one of a plethora of lists, then handed the papers back. “You're on. Keep an ear out—we'll call passengers about eight o'clock. If you don't answer the call within ten minutes, your seats go to one of those waiting.”

Dominic retrieved the papers, then turned and nodded into the room. “Let's see if we can find a table.”

She hung back and let him take the lead. With a greatcoat over her youth's clothes, and her wide-brimmed hat firmly in place, she felt confident her disguise would fool most observers, but a youth would follow his tutor, not the other way about.

A guard stepped into the room, raised a bullhorn, and bellowed for the passengers on the mails to Norwich, Newcastle, and Leeds. Several groups stood and quickly gathered their bags.

“Over there.” Dominic tipped his head toward a table in one corner of a wide alcove running along the back wall. She followed as he pushed past the previous occupants now on their way to the door.

The vacated table had benches for four on either side.

He waved her in. “Take the corner.”

She slid along the bench while he turned and looked back at the door. Then he swung back and sat beside her. Given their current state of mutual avoidance, she'd wondered if he would. Then again, now they were once more in public, she doubted his protective tendencies would allow him to preserve any distance to speak of.

Protective men tended to hover close, and possessively protective men—she was fairly certain he would be one—were even worse.

Griswold, Brenda, and Mulley appeared out of the crowd and, after inquiring politely about the vacant seats, joined them. Jessup and Thomas arrived shortly after.

On leaving the house, they'd split into three groups and had taken separate hackneys to Aldersgate as if they weren't all one party. If she was supposed to be a youth traveling with her tutor on the mail, then they wouldn't have an entourage.

As soon as they'd all settled, a serving girl bustled up to take their orders; as all passengers needed to arrive early to ensure that their seats remained theirs, the inn did a roaring business feeding them while they waited. Angelica chose the mutton stew. With all orders taken, the girl whisked off, and the group settled to chat and pass the time.

At first the talk was of Scotland, the highlands, and the castle; Angelica drank in the details, but then the conversation fragmented and turned to people and places she didn't know. Her attention shifted to the room, to its myriad occupants.

Aware her attention had wandered, Dominic briefly searched her face, hesitated, then said, “Does the experience live up to your expectations?”

Without looking at him, she murmured, “My expectations were uninformed, and therefore very tame compared to the reality. There's so much going on, and it's so intense, so full of energy.” After a moment, she glanced at him. “I've never traveled by mail, and it's unlikely I will again, so”—she looked back at the room—“I'm looking my fill and am eager to experience all there is to it.”

“I've never traveled by mail either.” When she glanced at him, puzzled, he caught her gaze. “I'm an earl, remember.”

“I hadn't forgotten, but . . . not even in your misspent youth?”

“I'm not sure I had a misspent youth, not in the sense you mean.”

She shifted to face him, leaning one elbow on the table and propping her chin on that hand. Her attention was now wholly his, which some part of him regarded as how things should be, despite his wish to keep a non-arousing distance between them.

After a moment of studying him, she frowned. “I really can't see you as the sort
not
to have a misspent youth.”

At least they were talking again. “But I had clan, remember? I didn't have to travel to find like-minded souls with whom to carouse. My equivalent to your brothers' and cousins' misspent youths was spent in the highlands, or at school or university in Edinburgh. There were few mail coaches about for us to commandeer and try our hands at driving. For the most part, we rode, or drove gigs, and later curricles.”

“But you came to London. You must have gone back and forth several times.”

“True, but that was after the accident. I was already twenty-one and beyond the reckless hellion stage, and as Debenham, I had a private coach, which I used because of my knee. So I've always traveled privately, never on the mail.”

Her frown returned. “I forgot about your knee—you haven't been using your cane.” She blinked. “And you didn't have it with you all day yesterday.”

Her clear disapproval made something in him ease. He shrugged. “This time it's recovering much faster. I jarred the old injury, but it was nowhere near as bad as the first time.”

She glanced down at the bags at their feet. “You haven't brought a cane with you.”

“It's too distinctive—just in case your family starts looking for Debenham.”

Still frowning, she opened her mouth—

“Here you go.”

He turned to see the serving girl lifting plates from a tray. She handed them around. “Drinks'll be with you shortly.”

They fell to, and conversation largely ceased.

Once he'd cleared his plate, he cast about for some safe topic while Angelica was still eating. “We've spoken of my misspent youth—what of yours?”

“Young ladies don't have misspent youths—they have Seasons.”

“And yours were . . . ?”

Gaze on her plate, she considered, then said, “Surprisingly uneventful, now I look back on them. There really is very little to relate. It was all exactly as I'm sure you can imagine—the balls, soirees, parties, and the like. Nothing of any significance.”

She looked up, then focused past him. He turned.

Jessup was unfolding a map. “Let's see . . .”

A discussion ensued as to their route, of the towns the mail would halt at, and how much time the journey would take.

“Edinburgh Mail!” a stentorian voice boomed across the room. “Leaving in ten minutes, west side of the yard. All those with papers report to the guard by the boot.”

“That's us.” Thomas leapt up.

They quickly gathered their bags. Standing, Dominic threw a handful of coins on the table, then, clamping down on the urge to assist Angelica off the bench seat, waited until she'd slid over, stood and retrieved her bag, then with a commanding tip of his head, he led her toward the door.

The others had gone ahead, reporting to the guard in their different groups. The papers he and Angelica held entitled them to two of the inside seats. They were joined by Brenda and Griswold. Mulley and Thomas had clambered up to the passenger seat on the roof, while Jessup had claimed the seat beside the coachman.

With everyone aboard, the coachman climbed to the box, and the guard swung up to his position above the boot, alongside the sacks of mail they would deliver along the route.

Angelica peered out of the window; although her excitement was distinctly childlike, she embraced it. As she'd said, she was unlikely to have the chance to experience this ever again.

Briefly, she glanced at Dominic, seated alongside her. He was staring out of the opposite window, watching, appraising—searching for any sign of recognition or pursuit—but he was also, like her, drinking in the scene. That this journey would be a first for him, too, that they would be sharing the novelty, added interest to her anticipation.

She and her hero were about to set off on a journey to conquer a metaphorical dragon and regain a treasure vital to him and his people—what more could a young lady bent on love, adventure, and challenge ask for?

Clarity
and
certainty
popped into her mind.

She'd expected to feel a lot more certain, a lot more definite about how to make him love her, a lot more sure of the route to that shining goal.

The guard's horn sounded, a long clarion call signaling the coach's departure. Thrusting her uncertainty deep, she reached instead for her excitement, for the thrill of the moment; regardless of her confusion and the disarray of her plans, in every way, on every level, this moment was indisputably the beginning of the rest of her life.

The carriage jerked and started ponderously rolling, then it turned out of the yard and into the street.

Riding the upswing of emotion, she leaned toward Dominic and murmured, “We're away!”

Glancing at her, Dominic took in her shining eyes, the reined enthusiasm in her expression. He said nothing, simply nodded, then turned back to watching the pavements.

He remained tense, alert, and watchful, a part of him expecting to meet some Cynster-inspired hurdle with every passing mile, but the coach rolled out of London unimpeded, and out along the Great North Road.

Twilight deepened, then darkness closed in. By the time they reached Enfield, it was full night. The change of horses was rapid and practiced; passengers were discouraged from alighting as the instant the traces were tightened, the coachman would drive on. While the fresh horses were being put to, Dominic noted several ostlers glancing at the occupants of the coaches in the yard, but their attention was focused on the two private carriages waiting behind the mail for their horses to be changed.

Minutes later, they were on the road again, rattling north at speed. He relaxed a fraction, leaning back, watching as the others settled to get what sleep they could.

As the miles rumbled by, he dozed. Beside him, Angelica shifted frequently, trying to get comfortable without touching him; every time she did, he had to consciously suppress the urge to reach out and draw her near, to have her lay her head on his chest and relax against him. An irrational and irritating urge. Quite aside from the unwisdom of touching her, she was supposed to be a youth, and they were still too close to London to risk someone inadvertently glimpsing her and seeing through her disguise.

When she finally fell more deeply asleep, he glanced at her. Moonlight slanted through the coach's window; despite her hat, its glow limned her profile, relaxed in slumber, and outlined her lips, so impossible to imagine on any male's face. Asleep, tongue stilled, eyes closed . . . it wasn't hard to see how she'd come by her name.

Facing forward, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

T
he rest of the night passed uneventfully, if not comfortably. Dominic shook Angelica awake as the coach rolled into Huntingdon. “Breakfast—and we'll need to eat quickly.”

She'd been sleeping curled in the corner, her cheek resting on one hand. She opened her eyes, looked at him, slowly refocused, then straightened her legs and sat up, mumbling, “I thought it was just another change.”

In addition to Enfield, they'd stopped to change horses at Ware and Buntingford, but as at Enfield, those changes had been effected swiftly, with no real halt. At both Ware and Buntingford, he'd seen unusually alert ostlers scanning the coaches, but while some had glanced at their windows, none had shown any real interest in them.

As Buntingford was the third stage north from the capital, it seemed that they had indeed successfully slipped through the net the Cynsters had cast around London. That didn't, however, mean that there wouldn't be other watchers further on.

Angelica yawned, then glanced at the window. “Oh—what time is it?” Not even a hint of dawn had yet lightened the night sky.

“A little before four o'clock. We're on schedule.”

Brenda stirred, then woke. Griswold was already alert. “I'll change with Mulley, my lord—give him a chance to catch a wink.”