Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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Название: Marrying The Rebellious Miss
Автор: Bronwyn Scott
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Исторические любовные романы
isbn: 9781474053754
isbn:
The inn door opened and she watched Preston come out, rain beating on the shoulders of his great coat, dripping in rivulets down his dark hair, turning him somewhat more primitive than the gentleman she was used to. A man called out to him, something she couldn’t hear. Preston did not hesitate to silence him with a scowl and sharp words of his own. The man backed off. So it was that kind of crowd.
Preston climbed inside the coach, looking grim. ‘Bad news, Bea. They’ve only the one room. There’s a horse show in town and rooms everywhere are full. It’s either this or driving on. I suppose we could try. There’s a bit more daylight yet.’ He didn’t sound hopeful. Matthew was fully awake now, sitting on her lap and on the verge of another cranky bawl over being cooped up.
‘Take the room. I am sure we can manage.’ Beatrice smiled bravely. ‘I think it’s the only decision we can make. I know it’s not ideal.’
Preston nodded and twisted at something on his hand. His grandfather’s gold ring with a square emerald in it, a very masculine ring, a gift to him on his eighteenth birthday. She’d been there the night the gift had been given, a sign of maturity, of coming of age, of being recognised as another Worth male in a lineage that spanned generations, a proud moment, a prized possession. He handed it to her. ‘You should put it on, Bea.’ He shrugged, his explanation modest although she’d already divined the reason for it. ‘It will protect you.’ From the bullies in the yard, from whatever clientele existed in the taproom.
Beatrice nodded silently and slipped the ring on. Preston’s fingers were long and slender, a musician’s hands, although she hadn’t heard him play in years. As a result, the ring fit moderately well, only slightly loose. She curled her hand into a fist to ensure it didn’t slide off. What a difference a ring could make. A wife was entitled to all sorts of protections and considerations denied a single woman. Wasn’t that the reason she’d created her own fictitious husband in Scotland? Still, she was confident in her safety, ring or not. Preston would keep her safe. He always had. She had no reason to doubt his capabilities now.
Preston blew out a breath. ‘All right, let’s go. You carry Matthew and I’ll carry you. I’ll have a porter bring the bags.’ He swung her up into his arms, the babe clutched against her chest, and made his way across the muddy inn yard.
The room was small, with barely enough space for a bed, a small table, a fireplace and a dressing screen in the corner. The smallness seemed to emphasise the reality that even between longstanding friends, masquerading as husband and wife carried with it a dangerous intimacy. It was the bed that did it, dominating the tiny space so that one could think of nothing else but bed and all that it implied.
Stay busy, Beatrice told herself. She set Matthew carefully in the bed’s centre and set about starting a fire. Preston was downstairs, overseeing the bags, and he was wet. He’d want heat when he came up. She checked the cleanliness of the towels and the bedding, hanging one towel near the fire to warm for Preston. A maid popped her head in and Beatrice tried to order dinner, but was told the inn was too busy for special orders. Everyone who wanted to eat had to eat in the taproom. Preston relayed the same information when he came up a few minutes later.
‘The room is small.’ Preston’s eyes went briefly to the bed, perhaps drawing the same conclusions she had. Someone was going to end up in a chair or on the floor unless...unless they opted to share the bed. There would be no hiding in the dark if they did. But that was hours away yet.
‘It’s warm and clean, which is more than I expected. We’ll manage.’ She would rely on brisk efficiency to keep the fantasy at bay. ‘Let’s get you dry.’
Spoken like a perfect wife. The errant thought came to him as he stood in the centre of her efficient whirlwind, letting Beatrice strip him out of his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, laying them over the fireplace screen and picking up the heated towel. ‘Here, dry off with this, it’s warm. I am assuming a hot bath is out of the question if they can’t be bothered to deliver dinner.’ She let him mop his face and neck. His shirt was dry, protected from the damp by his other layers, fortunately for modesty’s sake, but perhaps unfortunately for his other senses. He was rather enjoying being fussed over.
Beatrice passed him another towel, saying, ‘For your hair’, before pushing him down into the room’s one chair and opening his travelling trunk. She pulled out clean clothes for him. ‘Your clothes will be dry in the morning, but you’ll need something for tonight.’ She laid them out on the bed.
‘Take care of yourself, Bea. I’ll do.’ Preston smiled at her efforts. Of course Beatrice would fuss over him. She took care of those in need whether it be a poor woman in a butcher shop or a hungry baby, or a soaking wet man. He didn’t mind. When was the last time someone had done for him? When he was at home, his valet did it, but when he travelled for the Crown, he was on his own. His work often required stealth and one could not be stealthy with a valet in tow.
Beatrice was a caregiver, it came naturally to her, part of how she took charge. Look what she’d done for her friends this past year, inspiring them to take life into their own hands; his sister had told him about the Left Behind Girls Club where the motto was ‘nothing will change until you do’. He’d seen evidence of it these last days, all the attention she selflessly lavished on her son. He supposed he’d always known that about Beatrice. She’d been the leader of the little group of girls since they were young. But to see it in action was another thing altogether, a reminder, too, that he might have grown up with Bea, but their adult lives had been spent separately. He might have known the girl she’d been, but he did not know entirely the woman she’d become. He’d like to know her, though. It was, in large part, what these past days in the coach had focused on. The journey was no longer merely a rescue or retrieval of an old friend, but a discovery. He had the sense she was doing the same with him, both of them exploring the same questions: who had they become in the absence of childhood and the presence of their own adversities?
Perhaps the more important question was: where did that discovery lead? They’d long since superseded the friendship of childhood in Little Westbury and they were fast becoming more than the sum of their friendship in London as new adults come to town. He knew it was due to the enforced proximity of the road. Once the road was gone and they were home, this sense of closeness would fade. It was how the road worked.
He watched her deftly change the baby into a fresh cloth, her face all smiles, her voice a gentle coo even when Matthew fussed and rolled, trying to thwart her efforts. Something inside him went soft. Would the closeness fade? He found himself trying on the old line of comfort: ‘maybe this time it would be different’. Maybe he didn’t want the closeness to fade.
Bea took a moment to play a game with Matthew, blowing on his belly before settling his clothes. The baby laughed, forgetting his own troubles, whatever they might be. Preston laughed, too, feeling some of the weariness of the day slip away when Bea looked over at him and smiled. It was not a special moment, the way milestone moments are, but he knew in his gut he would remember this moment for ever. His mind would keep a sharp picture of her at the bed, looking over at him with the laughing baby in her arms, as if this was his wife and his child. His family in truth. Then Matthew started to cry again and the moment was gone. Bea bounced him, trying to settle him down, undaunted.
Her patience was admirable, really. Preston knew СКАЧАТЬ