Augusta clicked her tongue and stroked the embroidery on her French kid gloves. “The front windows add so much more light and let us see the road.”
He glanced at the green hills beyond the window. “Like an old, fat hound with its belly scrapin’ dirt.”
She sniffed. “Well, I think it is quite smart. The coachmakers—”
“Charged too much and took too long.”
“Perhaps we should stop to eat. Hunger puts you in a foul temper.”
“Aye. Hunger of all sorts.”
She struggled against a smile. Her courses had come the day they’d left London for Shankwood Hall. Bastian had been looking forward to the long journey until then, anticipating making love to her in his new carriage. Now, three days on, he seemed to view the carriage as a prison with plush seats, a tall ceiling, and an inaccessible wife.
Torment, in other words.
She’d offered to pleasure him in other ways, but he’d complained about the windows. Now, she was down to distraction. Earlier, she’d tried conversing about Adam and Phoebe, whose daughter had been born in spring. Clara Shaw. A sweet little babe with her mother’s red hair and big, blue eyes. Augusta and Bastian had recently visited them at their new country house. Adam had apparently decided a palace suited his little princess.
As Augusta had chatted away about their visit, Bastian had merely grunted his responses.
Now, she tried a different tack—a challenge. “You know, you have failed to keep one of your promises.”
He frowned at her. “How so?”
“Well, you promised if I married you, that Ash would always have a place with us.”
“And he does.”
“You promised to purchase a new coach and to visit Shankwood.”
He glanced around and lifted a brow. “Aye.”
“And you said you would explain how Elijah Kilbrenner became Sebastian Reaver.”
Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You want to hear it now?”
“Yes. I should like that very much. Thank you.”
For a long while, she wasn’t certain he would answer. He stared out the window, his jaw hard while the carriage rolled along the surprisingly smooth road. Then, as though the tale were being reeled up like an anchor from beneath the sea, he said quietly, “I was Elijah Kilbrenner the night my father carried me out of our burning cottage. He went back to save my mother and sister. The roof collapsed. Nothin’ I could do but scream.”
She scooted closer until her thigh touched his. “How old were you?”
“Younger than Ash. Six, maybe.”
“Was there no one to care for you? Family?”
“A grandmother. I knew of her from letters my father had shared. But she lives in America—Boston. There was no one, really. For a time, the villagers took me in. The rector and his wife. A kindly shopkeeper. I was a bit … odd after the fire.”
“Odd how?”
“I didn’t speak for a few years.”
Augusta’s throat tightened, but she ruthlessly crushed the urge to cry. Bastian was a proud man, and much like Ash, he would not appreciate her weeping over him.
“Anyhow, there was a fellow who passed through the village a few times a year, sellin’ trinkets. Little bits of jewelry and such. He was a drunkard, you see, but a good sort. Always spinnin’ tales. One day, I had a notion to go with him, see some of these places he’d been tellin’ me about. I hid in his wagon, and off we went. By the time he realized he had a stowaway, we were in Scotland.” Bastian’s hand moved to her knee, stroking absently, as though he needed the connection. “He called himself Colonel Smoots.” He snorted. “Neither a Colonel nor a Smoots, but he could spin a tale, that much is certain.”
“What happened? Did he return you to your village?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t wish to return. He tried a few times, but I always found him again.”
“He was … kind to you?”
“Aye. A good sort.” His thumb rubbed her knee with little circles. “Did a lot of thievin’, though. Never could stay in any place too long, lest he be caught.” He shrugged. “Still, he taught me a fair bit.”
“A-about thievery?”
“Aye.”
“Oh, good heavens.”
He chuckled, deep and low. “One night, he sent me in through a window. Fine house with a library. Told me, ‘Now don’t be greedy, boy. Small things. Small things for small hands.’” His hand squeezed her knee, wrapping entirely around her leg through the folds of her gown. “But I saw a big thing. Gold and shiny. A clock. I took it.”
She blinked. The clock in his office. The one he would not allow her to move or replace, even though it suited him not at all.
“I tore out of there faster than a scalded cat. Not fast enough, though. A footman took a shot.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “A shot?”
“Aye. He missed. It was dark. I was fast. A pistol doesn’t have much range.”
She took a slow, deep breath.
“But his employer. Oh, now, he was sharper. Came round through another door and caught me good.”
She swallowed. “Good how?”
“A proper kick to the belly. Man’s boot does some damage at full speed like that. The clock went flyin’. I went flyin’. He got me a few more times before Smoots arrived. Before that, though, he kept shoutin’. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard reiver. Man was mad.” Bastian glanced down to where his hand circled her leg. He stroked her gently, those long fingers so much bigger and stronger than they’d been when that man had hurt him. “Smoots put him down. I don’t know how. Woke up outside Glasgow. Smoots had saved the clock and me. But the footman got him with the second shot. Took a while for him to die. A few days.”
“Oh, God, Bastian.” She couldn’t bear it. She climbed into his lap and squeezed his neck until she could breathe again.
His arms closed tight around her. He rocked her a bit, stroking her hair. “Didn’t mean to upset ye, Gus.”
“I don’t like to think of you being hurt.”
“Well, you did ask how I went from bein’ Elijah Kilbrenner to Sebastian Reaver. That’s how.”
“Bastard Reiver. You made a name out of it.”
“Aye.”
“And your horse.”
“Named for the colonel.”
“And the clock.”
“Still with me. I keep what’s mine.”
“I am yours.”
“Aye, love. That you are.”
“You must keep me forever.”
He kissed her. Deep and long and with all the fire she’d come to adore from her rough man. When he stopped, she breathed against him. Stroked his hard jaw.
“Are you ready to be Elijah Kilbrenner again? We should arrive any time now.”
He chuckled. “Ye’re very good at distractions, Gus.”
She grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Elijah Kilbrenner is the heir. A bloody nob.”
“For now,” she said, kissing the cleft of his chin. “I have wondered if perhaps Viola and James did not give up a bit too quickly. My mother conceived seven years after delivering me.”
He fell quiet, his hands roaming her back and nape and waist. His fingers sifted through the curls at her temple. “I should like to have a babe with you, Augusta.”
“Yes, I do get that sense. Perhaps it is all the marital congress.”
“Bloody hell, woman. I am trying to tell ye—”