“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re not a little girl.”
In her suddenly drowsy fog, she thought his voice sounded gruffer, thicker. She didn’t know what that signified, if anything, but she shivered. Even though she wasn’t cold anymore, she shivered.
She supposed his tickle-soft touch on her palms had something to do with that. Her hand felt like a lead weight. She let it droop. He caught it and lowered it onto his chest.
She felt his shirt against the back of her hand.
A lethargic smile curved her lips. “Breaking custom tonight, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re wearing clothes.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, this entire journey has been one for breaking tradition, I suppose.”
“I suppose it has.” Not that journeying anywhere was a custom of hers. This entire trip, in fact, was a break in tradition for her.
His fingers continued their sensual assault on her hand, creeping up her wrist and forearm in slow, measured strokes and then back down again. Sensual? When had his touch become sensual?
She gave a slight shake of her head and told herself it was relaxing. Not sensual.
“Is your sister in London?”
“Yes,” he answered.
She thought about that for a bit. He clearly liked her. Clara. So he would return eventually.
As though he could read her thoughts, he asked, “Why do you want to go to London so much?”
Her lips worked before she arrived at her answer. “I’ve never been.”
“So? I’ve never been to Warsaw, but I’ve no overriding desire to go there.”
She laughed once, lightly, and then sobered. “My father visited London. He told me about it. The buildings and people. The museums and galleries. The theaters. The bookshops.”
“It’s crowded. You can’t breathe there.”
“What do you mean? There’s air there like anywhere else.”
“Not like anywhere. Not like here.”
She turned that over in her mind. Perhaps she had built London up in her mind. Perhaps the most important thing was to simply get away from Collie-Ben, where she was known as the girl married at the age of ten and five to old man Beard . . . and now where she would be known as the girl sold at auction.
Anywhere else was preferable. As long as it was someplace else. As long as it was away.
“I suppose the air can be different,” she agreed as his fingers traveled over her skin, “in certain places.” Life at the Beards’ had smelled of sweat, the air cold and ripe as an onion field, but next to him the air felt . . . warm. Electric. Not easy to breathe necessarily, but still different from Collie-Ben. Better.
And that was a rattling thought. She shouldn’t enjoy being near him quite so much. At that thought, she pulled her hand away. “Thank you. I’m much relaxed now. I should sleep quite well.”
Rolling onto her side, she pulled deep inside herself and feigned sleep.
Chapter 13
The dove never felt frail. Never weak.
Her heart always beat strong beneath her feathered chest . . .
ready for the day the cage door flung open.
The good news was they left early the following morning and reached the next village well before nightfall.
Alyse only offered the sparsest of words as they traveled. She was too preoccupied with her thoughts. She almost didn’t feel the cold at all as she recalled how she fell asleep last night with his fingers tracing her palm and his deep velvet voice talking to her about dreams and his little sister and places where the air flowed clean. It was unnerving. Nothing about it felt like something that should have happened between them, and she thought of little else as they traveled deeper north.
She thought about it too much.
When they arrived at the village the only lodging to be found was more of a boardinghouse than an inn, and it didn’t boast a bounty of bedchambers. Once again, they were forced to share a room. At this point, it felt par for the course and she experienced only a momentarily flash of unease.
They had shared a bed twice now. She’d endured it both times with no mishap—well, if one did not count a great sense of awkwardness.
The boardinghouse was operated by Mrs. Collins, a widow who currently looked them over critically, clearly trying to decide whether or not they were married.
Alyse knew she looked bedraggled and hardly a proper match for the better dressed Mr. Weatherton. After a night spent sleeping in his clothes and road-weary from two days of travel, he still looked annoyingly fresh. His manner and bearing declared him a gentleman whilst all of her shouted awkward and peasant stock.
The widow slid a registry toward Weatherton for him to sign. “I will put ye and yer wife in the yellow room. In the spring it ’as a lovely view of my garden.” Fingers laced stiffly before her, Mrs. Collins studied them carefully, likely to see if they would correct her assumption that they were man and wife. “I operate a good and moral establishment,” she added.
“We would stay at nothing less,” Weatherton replied with ease, clearly not rattled by her judgment. “And we shall have to stop here for the night when we next journey south,” he added amiably, flashing her a devastating grin.
“Och, that would be lovely, sir.” Mrs. Collins tittered, her double chin jiggling, the sharp condemnation fading from her eyes as she preened beneath Weatherton’s charm. “And might I inquire yer final destination?”
“The Black Isle.”
“Ah. I’ve a cousin who lives near in Inverness.”
As they bantered back and forth, Alyse glanced down at the book, noting that he had signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Weatherton. It was a necessary subterfuge. Just like the night before when they had let Mara believe they were married. They could not risk offending the proprietress and being turned away.
Alyse did not spot many servants about the house as Mrs. Collins led them from the foyer. Just a young lass lugging two buckets down the stairs. The widow addressed the maid as they passed her on the stairs. “Gregoria, back tae the kitchen wi’ those buckets for more water.” She clapped her hands briskly. “Make ’aste now. Our guests want to wash before dinner.”
“Yes, mum.”
Once on the second floor, Mrs. Collins opened the door to their chamber and then glanced down at the watch pendant pinned to her bodice. “Dinner is in ’alf an ’our. Dinna be late. It be yer only chance tae eat. I dinna keep the kitchen open all ’ours.” She followed this stern warning with a softening smile for Weatherton. “I vow it will be worth it, sir. My scones ’ave been known tae keep a boarder ’ere an additional night.”
“I can hardly wait,” Weatherton replied.
It soon became clear that Mrs. Collins had a hand in everything that occurred under her roof. Not only did she herself admit guests into her home and escort them to their rooms, she served dinner downstairs in the dining room, carrying in the food with the help of Gregoria and presiding over the feast with a judgmental eye.
When Alyse declined the leek soup, the old dragon poured some into a bowl for her anyway, tsking her tongue. “Ye’ll love it.”
“Er, thank . . . you,” she murmured, picking up her spoon.
They dined with three other guests. Mrs. Collins directed each of them where to sit with the authority of a queen. Alyse didn’t feel particularly social, but there was little choice if she wanted to eat. She was trapped, sandwiched between two of the other guests. One was a peddler who spent most of the meal trying to sell anyone who would listen one of his kettles. Another was a young vicar. At least he claimed to be a vicar. It was difficult to imagine him as a man of the cloth. He spent an inordinate amount of time drawing her into conversation and touching any part of her he could reach. He patted her shoulder, her arm. Once he brushed a hand to her chin claiming she had something there.