The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 23

23

“ T here’s an inn up ahead.” Harry had slept in the loft of their stable on his trip to London, but he wasn’t about to say that to Lady Charity. She might insist on sleeping in the loft as well, and he absolutely could not allow a woman of her station to lower herself to such an extreme.

“Thank goodness,” she said, her voice filled with relief. “I must admit I’m not accustomed to riding such long distances.”

“Nor am I.” Harry’s backside felt as though he’d been pounding his buttocks against an iron fence for the past five hours, and his thighs were worse. The constant flexing from riding at a posting trot had taken its toll, and the muscles in his legs had been quivering for the past few hours. He could only imagine the aches and pains Her Ladyship must be experiencing from riding sidesaddle. Though he’d never actually tried it, he’d heard handling a mount while sitting aside was far more challenging than it was to sit astride.

She cleared her throat before making an awkward humming noise. “Ah…um, I’ve no idea exactly how to put this, so I may as well have out with it. I…ah…um have been saving my pin money for some time, not for anything in particular, of course, but just to have a wee bit of coin on hand in case of an urgent need, and I believe this situation calls for it.”

“No,” he growled, hoping to dissuade her from continuing.

“No? It is I who asked you to accompany me to Brixham. I ought to bear the cost.”

“I said no.”

He might be light in the pocket, but he was not about to allow the woman to pay for her room and board. In truth, if the ladies at Huntly needed her so badly, then she ought to have booked passage on a coach and traveled with her lady’s maid. But then again, Charity’s family had been rather bullheaded about insisting she remain in London and forget about the manor, and asserting that the new steward would handle things, except Harry highly suspected the new Dunscaby steward had far more important matters to address than a handful of hapless bluestockings living in a small estate.

“Do not be ridiculous.”

He reined his horse to a stop. “Before we walk into that inn and pose as husband and wife, let us set a few things straight. I am the husband. I will pay and I will entertain no argument. You can use your pin money for something else. Am I understood?”

“Aye, m’lord, but?—”

“No, no, no!”

A bit of color sprang in her cheeks. “If I’m nay allowed to speak, then lead on.”

Charity blew on her gloved hands while she waited for Harry to return. He’d made her wait in the stables while he inquired about a room—he’d left her in the barn of all places. His reasoning had been sound enough. He’d told her that she couldn’t take a chance on being recognized, so he’d insisted she wait for him out of sight. Of course, he was right. This whole scheme was a disaster. She’d imagined they’d chat during the entire ride, but Harry had been brooding and untalkative. How was she supposed to rekindle the wee bit of romance that had sparked between them last summer if he wasn’t amenable? And, regardless of her foreboding family, why were the American heiresses more enticing than she? Why couldn’t she be a proper Englishwoman like her mother? She was backward and Scottish, and though the endless litany of rules that applied to young ladies had been drilled into her head for as long as she could remember, she abhorred every last one of them. He ought to have taken her coin. She ought to have been able to offer it without feeling like an insensitive heel.

She straightened when Harry stepped into the lamplight. “Did all go well?”

“It did.” He beckoned her with his fingers, then grasped her elbow and turned his lips toward her ear. “Pull the brim of your bonnet low. We’ll walk straight in and up the stairs. The matron is sending a lad with dinner.”

“Lovely, thank you.” she nearly added that she hoped there was a raging fire in the chamber’s hearth, but kept her mouth shut. She must be happy with the arrangements, regardless of how provincial. After all, last Season the lassies in London referred to her as provincial; now she just might have the opportunity to discover what that truly meant.

Except when they arrived in the chamber, there was a deliciously roaring fire in the hearth, a lovely bed fluffed with a feather mattress, and a bowl and ewer full of steaming water. In fact, the chamber was every bit as welcoming as the inns she’d enjoyed when travelling with her family. “This is perfect.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

There was only one thing amiss. She turned full circle. “Where do you plan to sleep?”

For a moment, Harry stared at Lady Charity without so much as a blink. He’d let the king’s suite for the night, and had insisted his wife received every comfort—aside from a bath. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to endure pretending to be disinterested while she was naked, lathering her lush body with sweet-smelling suds.

“Uh…” he grunted like an oaf. “Floor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

With the toe of his old boot, Harry tapped the carpet, somewhat worn for a king’s chamber. “I’ll do well enough on the floor.” After sleeping on a mattress with five men at the boarding house, most mornings he awoke on the hard floor. Bedding down on a bit of worn carpet ought to be an improvement.

“As you wish.” Her Ladyship gave an uncertain nod and set to removing her hat and her hairpins. With each one, an auburn curl dropped, bouncing its way down, down, down past her waist.

Harry rubbed his fingertips together as he counted each silken rope of hair. If only he could reach out, pinch one, and run it through his fingers. He’d always admired the color of Charity’s hair, but he’d never seen it down before. Who knew it was longer than her waist—so long, if she were naked, those glorious waves of cinnamon would swish across her buttocks?

God’s blood, this line of thinking had made him harder than an oak branch.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I hope you dunna mind that I let my hair down before we eat. I assumed dining up here was to be informal.”

“Um…ah…” He shifted his stance. “Informal, quite right. How I prefer to take my meals.”

“I’m ever so happy to hear it.” She turned as she combed her hair with her fingers, and let it fall, slightly covering one eye. Did the woman have any idea how tempting she looked? How the hell was he supposed to make it through the night without pulling her into his arms and devouring that pouty mouth—those ruby lips—the feel of ample breasts pressed against his chest?

Harry breathed a sigh of relief when a lad and a maid arrived with the food, as well as a flagon of wine. He usually stuck to one schooner of ale, two at most, but mayhap he’d guzzle the whole bottle of wine and send for another. Surely pickling himself ought to make his tool stop standing at attention.

“You must have had quite a thirst, m’lord,” Charity said, gesturing to the empty wine bottle. Throughout the entire meal, she had chattered like a finch, while Harry had poured himself glass after glass of wine, until the entire bottle was empty.

“Quite a thirst,” he said, his eyelids half cast.

“Are you tired?”

He moved his little finger just enough to lightly brush hers. “Very.”

Charity gasped at the slight friction, and their gazes met for the briefest of moments.

“He is still a man. Regardless if you are traveling in disguise, you will be vulnerable—especially when the two of you are alone. You and only you can protect your virtue as well as prevent a scandal, ” Sophia’s warning rifled through her mind.

Charity snapped her hand away and pushed to her feet. “Then I shall ensure you are comfortable for the night,” she said, not daring to look him in the eyes again. Rather, she busied herself by removing the duvet from the bed, pulling back the bedlinens and hefting the overstuffed feather top-mattress onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, his fists on his hips.

“Making you a pallet. You cannot possibly think that I would sleep in luxury whilst you suffer a night on the hard floor.”

“That is exactly what I think. You are the type of woman who needs to be pampered, with a husband who is a peer and who brings in no less than thirty thousand a year and who showers you with elegant gifts and ferries you about in lavish carriages.”

Charity’s hackles stood on end. How dare he make her out to be one of London’s snobbish, spoilt darlings?

“Do you believe all that matters to me is living among the haughty members of the ton and showing off my wealth? If you do, then you have sorely mistaken me with my sister Grace, who is presently attending finishing school and doing her best to become more English .” Charity threw one of the pillows atop the pallet. “I have nothing against Englishmen and women, mind you. My mother was born and raised in England. And you are an English gentleman, of course. But I am Scottish, my father was Scottish, and I quite like being a Scot.”

Harry spread his arms wide as if he hadn’t a clue that he’d insulted her. “I rather like you as a Scot, as well. I do not believe I ever mentioned anything otherwise.”

“But you just pigeonholed me as a woman eager to marry so that I may flaunt my husband’s wealth.” She stamped her foot. “I’ll have you know I do not give a whit about wealth.”

“Mayhap that is on account of…”

“On account of what?” she demanded.

Harry raked his fingers through his thick brown hair and swayed in place a bit. “You…you have never been without it.”

With her next blink, Charity’s rage completely deflated. He was right, she had absolutely no idea what it was like to be poor. The closest she had been to it was moving into Huntly Manor and coming to grips with all the repairs the house needed. Even then, her brother had provided the funds to make the repairs as well as to feed and support the household. True, she had tried to be careful about her spending, but she could have spent far more without anyone balking.

Charity never once went without new gowns and the finest accessories to go with them. Mama ensured she had the best modistes and the most superb silks and cloths that money could buy. Even the peacock costume she’d worn to the masquerade had cost…well, in truth, Charity had no idea how much it had cost, just that she’d heard one of the fitting seamstresses mention that it was the dearest costume of the Season.

I ought to be ashamed of flaunting such extravagance. I can only imagine what Harry must think of me.

She glanced down to her traveling dress—Sophia had mentioned that Charity didn’t even know what it was like to travel without a lady’s maid. Of course, she’d had Georgette tie her stays a bit loosely for the day, because she had planned to sleep in her clothes, but even if she’d wanted to undress, she couldn’t do so without help—not with her gown laced down the back, the ties securely tucked away, and her stays were just as inaccessible.

And she would not ask for help.

She regarded the man standing on the other side of the table. Not so long ago, she had been surrounded by those brawny arms. She would sell her soul to be warmly wrapped in them again, but it appeared to be too late for that. He didn’t love her as she loved him. He didn’t want her in the same way that she wanted him. He might have fought off Digger and the Seedy Lout, but he hadn’t stood up to Martin and declared his feelings.

“We ought to turn in for the night,” he said, his hair standing on end. “We have two more days of hard riding ahead of us.”

“Aye.” She slipped into the bed and pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.

Harry blew out the candles, then after a bit of rustling, he released a deep sigh.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his silhouette outlined by the coals smoldering in the hearth. From this angle, looked as aristocratic as any man she’d seen, including Prince George. With his hair swept back, Harry’s forehead was rather high, his nose was straight, yet bold. And even in the shadows, the dark stubble that had grown in on his chin over the course of the day made him seem as dangerous as a pirate.

She rolled to her side to enable better observation. “Do you oft drink nearly a whole bottle of wine with your evening meal?”

“Almost never.”

“Then why did you consume so much this night?”

“Forgive me, did you want more than one glass?”

“No, I didna even finish the one you poured for me.” Charity hesitated for a moment. “Are you nervous?”

“About what?”

“About this…ah…pretending to be husband and wife.”

The coals popped, Charity’s breath rushed in her ears, even Harry’s breath sounded like a gale force wind, but he did not reply.

“I was nervous,” she whispered.

“Afraid that someone would recognize us, were you?”

“Nay.”

“Then why?” he asked, though he still hadn’t addressed her question.

Perhaps he’d had the same doubts as she.

“You canna tell me you had no reservations about piquing the ire of my kin once again,” she said.

He yawned. “The thought had crossed my mind a time or two.”

“Yet you decided to help me, nonetheless,” she mused, mostly for her benefit since neither she nor he was being forthright. At least she was not.

“You made a point. Both of us needed to travel to Brixham and…”

“And?” she asked, holding her breath and praying that he would have out with his feelings.

“Go to sleep.”

Groaning, Charity flopped onto her back. How did one tell a man that her all-powerful family was wrong? How did a lass go about telling a man what she wanted, when such a thing was never done?

She rolled once more and faced the wall, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Harry’s masculine profile. She counted sheep—all the way to four hundred and sixty-three. She recited poetry. But nothing helped. Mr. Mansfield, the earl was still lying on the feather mattress across from her bed, and his every breath rattled in her ears.

I need to tell him.

“You may not be forthcoming about the reason you decided to assist me, but I can no longer hold my tongue. I asked you to help me for two reasons. Firstly, the excuse I put forth about needing to sort out the issues at Huntly Manor before Mrs. Fletcher runs roughshod over everyone is entirely true. However, I did not say that…well, if you must know…” She gulped, she shook, she pushed up on her elbow and clenched her fists. “I am in love with you.”

Charity waited, hearing a few more pops accompanied by more breathing. “I ken I’m just being a silly woman and that you have no such feelings for me, especially after my eldest brother threatened to shoot you. But I would be ever so grateful if you would say… something .”

Again came the silence, the pops from the coals, His Lordship’s breathing.

“M’lord?”

She waited.

“Brixham?”

Charity held her breath, just to ensure he hadn’t whispered something so quietly it was barely audible. But no, just pops and breathing.

“Harry? Are you asleep?”

When no reply came, she flopped to her back and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps it was for the best that he hadn’t heard her foolishly declare her love.