With the sun barely peeking over the horizon, Mary stomped back to the dreaded coach.
Blasted titled gentlemen.
Having spent most of the night eavesdropping on Gilbert and Lord Hadfield’s mundane male banter to fill in the time and remain awake, she had rested peacefully until they began discussing her future.
Her blood boiled as the men bandied about words of honor, ruin, and marriage. Deliberating over her future as if it were predetermined.
Men!
No—she would determine her fate. Marriage to a titled gentleman meant children— rearing offspring was not in Mary’s future. The mere thought of bearing a child gave her hives. None of her mama’s pregnancies were easy, and each one had drained the woman of every ounce of energy and life she possessed. The birth of Mary’s youngest sibling had nearly cost her mama’s life.
Despite her guides’ reassurances that Gilbert was the man for her, he was titled. Marriage to a man as virile as Gilbert would undoubtedly result in the Countess of Waterford bearing the future earl and a spare.
Mary rubbed her upper arms to ward off the chill of the brisk morning air and her dour thoughts. She would have to devise a plan to discourage Lord Hadfield. Marriage to Gilbert was simply out of the question. If he wanted to marry her, he would have done so already. Even her brother’s dying wish had not prompted the man to prove himself worthy. Mary wanted a partner in life. A man to accept her for all her assets, including her ability to converse with those no longer living. She refused to accept she was destined for a marriage born out of some ill-conceived notion that she must marry in order to uphold her honor.
Picking up her clean skirts, she grinned as she recalled the ruckus Greene had caused demanding access to Mary’s trunks. Greene had not only managed to obtain a clean change of clothes but had also convinced the men to allow Mary time to bathe and partake in a light repast. Mary was tempted to request that they remain at the inn for a few hours, for she sorely wished to lie upon a solid bed and sleep without being in motion.
After traveling days, upon days, in a coach from Scotland to Dover, then boarding the Quarter Moon to journey across the channel, Mary longed for a good long uninterrupted rest. Gilbert’s gravelly voice boomed through the door, asking if all was well. When Mary envisioned the two of them together in her room—naked—she scrambled out to the courtyard, never looking back.
A footman assisted her into the coach, and she waited for Greene to follow. When she heard her maid instructing the footmen to rearrange the trunks, Mary settled back into the corner and closed her eyes in an attempt to gain some rest before they set off once more.
The coach dipped. Mary’s eyes flew open as the scent of sandalwood filled the coach. The scent that set her senses on alert and belonged to the one man her body was inherently in tune with. “Gilbert, where is Greene?”
Drat. The man had changed and rid himself of all traces of horse and sweat. A scar ran from the corner of his lip down to his chin—it wasn’t red or puffy, yet it hadn’t been there six months ago. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t memorized every inch of the man’s features. She wanted to run her hand over his cleanly shaven square jaw and trace a finger along the healed wound. The war was over. He shouldn’t incur such injuries.
Rather than take the seat opposite her, Gilbert sat next to her and removed his coat, with swift practiced movements.
Gilbert shifted, rocking the coach. “Your maid will join us shortly. I believe she is still unhappy about the placement of your items.”
He lined up the shoulder seams, folded, tucked, and rolled up the coat material, creating a makeshift pillow. Deftly he placed it between the side of the coach and his head and closed his eyes. Just like that, he had simply shut her and the rest of the world out. To punctuate his lack of interest in her presence, Gilbert crossed his arms against his chiseled chest and yawned.
Inexplicably, Mary’s gaze fell to the white linen material drawn tight over his muscled arms. Her chest tightened, and her pulse quickened. Blinking, her aunt’s drawings flashed before her mind’s eye. Mary inhaled and exhaled slowly. Ignore him as he is ignoring you. Not an easy task when the man smelled so good and her body instinctively sought his out.
Space. She needed a few inches of distance before she gave in to the temptation to lean against Gilbert. Mary shifted, but her skirts caught beneath his large muscular thigh. She tugged at the material. It refused to come loose. She continued to try to set herself free, except her efforts resulted in the back of her hand grazing alongside his leg. Heat radiated up her arm, and she quickly released her skirts. She glanced at Gilbert’s face. Nothing—no reaction to the brief touch that had her heart beating rapidly.
Look away—pretend he doesn’t exist.
Mary ogled the man’s leg that slightly tensed and moved, releasing her skirts.
What was wrong with her?
Nothing. Lord Waterford is a handsome devil—sets the mind to wondering what those muscles would look like bare, doesn’t it? Lady Frances’s teasing words set Mary’s thoughts down a wicked path.
For years whenever Gilbert was within fifty feet of her, she’d managed to ignore the tingling sensations, resisted the urge to move closer, and remained cool despite her rising body temperature. But today she struggled to summon the willpower to avoid the man’s magnetic pull. Mary swallowed hard. She pried her eyes away from him and tried to huddle closer to the corner. Her leg brushed up against Gilbert, and every nerve in her body sparked. Blast the man.
She was about to move to the other bench when Greene entered the coach. Her maid promptly settled in. Greene angled herself to avoid Gilbert’s long legs, which resulted in her occupying three-quarters of the rear-facing seat.
Greene asked, “Do you need anything before we set off, my lady?”
Mary shook her head. “No, go ahead and rest.”
Her maid adjusted her cloak about her and was snoring within moments. It was preposterous how Greene could manage to fall asleep with such ease no matter what condition they found themselves in.
Mary, on the other hand, continued to wiggle and shift her weight. The crisp morning air had cooled the interior of the coach as Greene had entered, and Mary was now trying her best to avoid the alluring heat of Gilbert’s body.
She uncrossed her legs. Gilbert’s arm snaked about her waist and hauled her up off the seat. Gilbert quickly adjusted his position - one long muscular leg rested along the bench, slightly bent at the knee, while his other leg was planted firmly on the floor. Mary found herself wedged between his thighs. It was like being wrapped up in a warming blanket.
He cradled her against his chest. “Rest.”
How was she to fall asleep in this rather indecent position he had put her in?
“Gilbert, release me at once.” She wasn’t a babe to be coddled. But the warmth of his body had her muscles betraying her need to relax.
“No. I tire of your wiggling about.”
“And I of your—” Blast. Her brain couldn’t fail her now. The harsh quips that normally rolled off her tongue when in his company evaded her.
Sneaking a look up at the man, his features were relaxed and composed. Mary released a sigh and gave in, resting her head against his chest. The steady beat of his heart lulled her to sleep.
Zounds! He had finally confounded Mary long enough to escape her whip-like tongue, only to find she was a bundle of soft curves and delicious smells. Cinnamon. His favorite spice. Clearly, he had lost his mind. He tightened his hold around the woman snuggled in his arms. She had retracted her claws, and Gilbert found himself unable to resist his need for her. Burrowing his nose in her soft tresses, he inhaled. A calming warmth spread throughout his body. With her guard down, he pulled back slightly and took in her relaxed features.
Mary was beautiful awake, but in slumber, she was breathtaking. Her soft rosy lips, slightly parted. His traitorous hand ran up her arm, and his thumb couldn’t resist tracing the slope of her pert little nose. His eyes rested upon her cherub lips, beckoning to him.
His mind wailed at him, You promised her brother to take care of her, not ravish her while she slept.
Mary rested her small hand upon his chest, and his heart skipped a beat. Phillip was right. Mary was a treasure—a woman to be protected and cherished, not placed in danger.
When Gilbert made his promises to Phillip, he hadn’t hesitated in agreeing to sign the papers that would bind them for life. He also hadn’t considered that his family’s oath to protect others and his allegiance to the Crown might place Mary in harm’s way. He had vowed to marry her as soon as he determined it safe. One more mission had turned into years at war, and then another critical mission arose, and he had no choice but to leave her in Scotland.
His heart tugged as Mary’s fingers slid across his chest to come to rest under her chin. It was as if she were comfortably asleep, and he was her pillow. Suppressing a groan, Gilbert banished the image of Mary naked in his bed. Surely she would soon realize that his body was rudely protruding and prodding her side.
He bent closer as Mary began murmuring in her sleep. “Paintings. Madame Auclair.”
Auclair. Could Mary be referring to the French modiste known for creating risqué costumes and elaborate masquerade masks on the Continent? Gilbert gasped as a vision of Mary in a glittering gown adorned with diamonds and pearls struck him, stealing his breath.
The scent of cinnamon filled his nose, again acting as a calming agent. Eyes closed, he rested his chin atop Mary’s head. Her ramblings of the modiste reminded him of the many months he had spent away on the Continent. Perhaps Auclair’s reputation had recently reached London. In any event, there was a reported yearlong wait to be seen by the woman. There was no reason for him to panic—these visions were mere figments of his imagination. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Mary would never dare to wear such a gown, and while she was in his care, he would see to it that she didn’t.
The coachman’s “whoa” had him roughly shoving Mary off his lap and onto the seat beside him. Tarnation. What time was it?
Wide-eyed and confused, she stared at him. “Whatever is the matter? Are we under attack?”
His original intention had been to hold her until she fell asleep and then gently place her in the corner, but once she’d snuggled against him, he had not wanted to release her. No. He needed to hold her. Gilbert eyed her rumpled state. Instead of handling her with care, he had thoughtlessly jostled her about.
He crossed his legs and peeked out through the curtain. “We’ve arrived at the next coaching inn. Hadfield will be joining you soon.”
He turned back to find Mary’s lips turned down into a frown.
Shifting her gaze away from him, she said, “Wonderful. I expect Lord Hadfield’s company to be livelier. But before we leave, I’d like to take a moment to stretch my legs.”
Mary bent over, giving him the advantage of viewing her remarkable rump, and tapped her maid on the shoulder. “Greene. You must accompany me into the inn.”
Gilbert uncrossed and recrossed his legs as her maid opened her eyes. There was an alertness in Greene’s stare that had him on edge.
The door flung open, and Mary exited first. Greene eyed him as she rose to leave and, at the last moment, turned and gave him a wink. Good gracious. He was going to have to keep his hands off Mary.
Pacing about the courtyard, waiting for the women to return, Gilbert again resolved to act the gentleman that he was born and raised to be. What he needed was space from Mary who had the uncanny ability to unnerve him. A highly decorated soldier. A respected lord known for his skill handling any situation. Yet when he was around Mary, all common sense left him. He was on a mission. Now was not the time to deal with the woman who had plagued his thoughts and dreams for years. Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck, still ashamed of his nineteen-year-old self for calling her a witch.
Greene appeared, bringing him out of the recurring nightmare of the day he met Mary.
They both looked about for her mistress. There was no sign of Mary. Greene tugged on his coat sleeve. “My lord. I’ll not be able to feign slumber every time you join us. You will have to behave— next time.”
Not surprising, Mary would hire such an impertinent chit as a maid.
Straightening to his full height, he replied, “I’ll try my best.”
Greene scurried over to her mistress, who was exiting the inn. He stood at attention under Mary’s scrutiny. She never broke eye contact until her maid linked arms and ushered her to the traveling coach.
The sway of Mary’s hips had him mesmerized until Hadfield’s hand slapped him in the center of his back.
Hadfield chuckled. “You don’t look well-rested, my friend. Did Lady Mary keep you awake all day with idle chatter?”
Deciding it best to ignore the man’s queries, Gilbert said, “We have at least another day and a half’s journey before we make it to our destination.”
“Should we press on or stay at—” Hadfield squinted and read the sign. “Carrefour Auberge.”
Crossroads Inn—a rather appropriate name that reflected Gilbert’s own situation. Mentally debating the advantages and disadvantages of renting rooms for the night, Gilbert shrugged off Hadfield’s hand. “We should continue on— unless you have a specific reason to dally here?”
“No. I’m rather looking forward to resting in the coach with Lady Mary.”
“Be warned. The woman purrs like a small kitten when she sleeps.”
Hadfield burst into laughter. “War hero I knew you to be, but a man of such literary prowess I would have never guessed.”
Heat rose on Gilbert’s cheeks, and he stomped over to his horse, leaving Hadfield behind. Where did that flowery nonsense come from? Mary. It was all her fault.