Chapter 7 #2
He adjusted the sling around his neck. “I did not mind the old one.”
His tone was lighter than I’d ever heard from him before. Was he teasing me? Wonders never ceased.
He leaned back in his chair and grimaced as he shifted his injured arm. I eyed him. “Did the doctor not give you anything to help with the pain?”
“He did,” Mr. Rawlings said. “But it seems rather contrary to dull my senses while keeping watch for danger.”
“Then let me keep watch,” I offered. “I’ve had a few hours of sleep. I can rouse you if I see or hear anything.”
His eyes seemed to draw the shadows into them, making it more difficult than normal to guess his thoughts. Did he think me impertinent? Foolish? Useless?
“Thank you, Miss Lacey,” he said quietly in the end. “But I should feel better doing it myself. I can sleep in the coach tomorrow. We should arrive in the early evening if the storm passes quickly.”
I nodded, knowing it was pointless to argue with him. I’d learned that much in the last three days. Once he made up his mind, there was no changing it.
Except . . . I could not help but think I might have changed his opinion of me, however slightly, since we’d been thrown together in this misadventure. But perhaps that was wishful thinking.
“Can I—” I cleared my throat. “Can I do anything else?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you. I am sorry to have woken you.”
“You didn’t,” I said honestly. “But you needn’t fear to ask for my help, even if you find it difficult to do so.”
“I shall remember that in the future,” he said, and I almost believed him.
It seemed silly to wish him good night when it was early morning, so I simply returned to the bed and slid beneath the blankets gone cold. I could feel him watching me, which ought to have made me uncomfortable.
It was really quite peculiar—unaccountable, really—that instead I felt safe.
Mr. Rawlings was gone when I awoke, though the fire was stoked, and the sun shone weakly through the window.
I’d slept well—surprisingly well, considering the nightmare that had woken me and the intimacy of our encounter.
It would be easy to believe that I’d imagined our middle-of-the-night conversation, if not for my visceral memories—the scandalous heat of his nearness, the gravity of his gaze anchoring mine.
I threw off my blankets, welcoming the chill of the room outside the sphere of the fire’s warmth. I needed to rid myself of such thoughts. Things that happened in the hush of night had no place in daylight.
I did my hair in such a way that would surely make Mariah groan, then struggled with my stays until they were adequately snug. But when I began buttoning my dress, I realized, with no small amount of horror, that I could not reach the uppermost buttons on the back.
It was then, of course, when Mr. Rawlings knocked.
At least, I assumed it was he since it was identical to his knock last night, sharp and direct. A bolt of panic darted through me. I did not want him to see me in any sort of undress, even just a few missed buttons, and I could hardly ask him for help.
“One moment,” I called, my voice squeaking slightly, and I hurried to slip on my pelisse. That would have to do. Once we arrived at his cottage, I could retreat to my room—assuming we did not have to share one again, perish the thought—and change into another dress that I could more easily fasten.
I crossed the room and opened the door to find Mr. Rawlings standing there. He looked weary but not alarmingly so. Had he found a chance to sleep last night?
He held a small tray, balancing a mug of tea and a bowl of what I assumed was porridge but could very well be pig slop. One could not be certain in an inn like this.
“Good morning.” I forced a ridiculous amount of cheer into my greeting. No need to let him know how off-balance I still was by our interaction last night.
“Good enough, I suppose.” He moved past me and set the tray on the small table.
I closed the door, glancing at the food. “Is that for me?”
“I’ve already eaten,” he said briskly.
For a moment, a softness filled the space between us. He’d brought me breakfast?
“Eat quickly,” he ordered, ruining the moment as only he could.
I sighed as I dropped onto the chair beside the table. “Did you think I intended to linger over such a meal?”
“I never quite know what you intend, Miss Lacey.” He crossed the room to the window and peered outside. “The coach is being prepared as we speak. I’ve ordered Mr. Barton back to London and procured a hired coach and driver.”
I straightened. “What? Why?”
“To limit the number of those who know our location,” he said as if that were perfectly obvious.
It was logical, of course, but then, everything Mr. Rawlings did was logical.
“You might have let me say goodbye,” I said, somewhat indignant.
“Why?” He appeared baffled.
A good question. I had no real attachment to the kind Mr. Barton. But it was a stark reminder of my new reality, and I could not help but feel slightly abandoned. He’d been my last link to London, to Ginny. I was now entirely at the mercy of Mr. Rawlings.
“No reason,” I managed.
Mr. Rawlings did not seem to sense my sudden unease. “I’ll have the driver fetch your things.” He exited without another word.
“A delightful conversation, to be sure,” I murmured to the empty room. I regarded the porridge suspiciously, decided not to risk it, and picked up the mug of tea. It was weak but warm, and I sipped it gratefully. I needed fortification against whatever this day would bring.
Which was more boredom, apparently. After loading our coach and setting off, Mr. Rawlings and I returned to our status quo of the day before—quiet.
But it felt more strained today. Likely because I’d seen him without his shirt not six hours ago, which had the tendency to make any subsequent interactions a touch on the awkward side.
I eyed him across the coach, and he stared steadfastly out the window. His free arm braced his injured one across his stomach, and his face seemed tenser than normal, even for him.
“Are you still in pain?” I asked.
“I can manage,” he said.
“That is not what I asked.”
“I can manage,” he said again, more shortly.
“You could not manage last night.”
“A singular experience, I assure you.”
I clasped my hands in my lap. “You still have not answered my question. Is your wound hurting you?”
He exhaled a long breath, still refusing to meet my gaze. “Of course it is. But as there is no solution for the pain besides medicine I will refuse, I see no point in discussing it again.”
“Do not be so quick to write off alternative treatments,” I said smartly. “I find complaining about one’s grievances to a sympathetic audience to be quite effective.”
“And are you volunteering for such a task?”
“You are injured because of me.” An unexpected ache claimed my throat. “The least I can do is lend you my ear.”
He finally looked at me, his expression perplexed. “You think this was your fault?” He raised his slinged arm just an inch, wincing as he did so.
“I do.” I swallowed to clear my throat. “If I had not been such an imbecile as to scream and distract you, I imagine you would have caught the man there in Vauxhall. Instead, you are injured, and we are both exiled to the country.”
Mr. Rawlings’s gaze narrowed but not in anger or frustration. Rather, it was how I imagined I looked whenever I read a particularly fascinating article in The Times: curious or perhaps intrigued.
“I do not blame you in the least,” he said. “I blame myself for letting my guard down and for putting you in such a dangerous position.”
“Then I suppose we will both continue to blame ourselves,” I said. “It is better than blaming each other, at least. In fact, I think we are as close to a truce now as we’ve ever been.”
“A truce?” He shifted forward with the slightest lowering of his brow. “I did not realize we were at war, Miss Lacey.”
I laughed. “That is because you are a man. All straightforward attacks and unforgiving sieges. Subtle strategy is a woman’s specialty.”
“Of that I have little doubt,” he murmured.
I ignored that. “Now, we’ve still a long day of traveling ahead.
I suggest we stop every so often to allow you a reprieve.
I imagine the jostling is not helping the pain.
And”—I raised my chin, forcing myself not to blush—“if your bandage should need changing, then I should be glad to help you again.”
Mr. Rawlings sat back in his seat, looking amused—if that was possible without actually smiling. “Are you always so eager to entrench yourself in the affairs of others?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I find it passes the time quite nicely.”
He shook his head and looked out the window again, but if I was not mistaken, a bit of stiffness left his shoulders.
The day went on without too much hardship.
Mr. Rawlings did not fuss when I ordered him out of the carriage every few hours to give him a rest from the constant bumping and swaying, which was a relief.
I’d assumed he was prideful even to his own detriment, but I was glad to see he had at least some sense.
He also slept a few hours, which eased my guilt.
We even spoke here and there, keeping to banal topics such as the road and the holding weather.
As the sun began to set toward the tree line, Mr. Rawlings sat forward and peered out the window.
“Are we nearly there?” I asked. I’d restrained myself from asking as long as I could.
He nodded. “We’re close. Another half hour, I’d imagine.”
We traveled in silence, the shadows growing long around us as we passed through a small village.
I wished I could have seen more of it. I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Rawlings would give me any freedom to explore once we were settled, if last night’s unexpected protectiveness was an indication of how our time in the country would progress.
“We ought to think of a new name for you,” Mr. Rawlings said suddenly. “To use while we are here.”
“A new name?” I repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “It would be pointless for me, since I’m already known, but giving you another name would offer an added layer of security.”
“A new name,” I mused. “What an opportunity. I’ve never much liked Beatrice, you know, though I would never tell my mother that.
” I sat forward, warming to the subject.
“Perhaps another Shakespearean woman? I’ve always been partial to Ophelia, though I should not like such a tragic ending.
But we needn’t limit ourselves to Shakespeare.
Perhaps Lysandra or Seraphina? Something exotic and exciting.
One doesn’t get to choose a new name every day. ”
Mr. Rawlings stared at me, mouth parted.
“What?” I asked, a bit miffed. “Have you never considered changing your name?”
“No, I have not,” he said slowly.
“You’ve no imagination at all,” I said. “Or perhaps it is a womanly pastime. We do, after all, spend our lives preparing to change our names when we marry. One cannot help but wonder.”
Mr. Rawlings looked nonplussed, as if I were a strange creature from a fairy tale come to life. “I had thought,” he said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “that we would only change your last name.”
I frowned. “That is practical, I suppose. It would be easier to remember if it was Beatrice So-and-So.”
“Smith?” he suggested.
“Beatrice Smith? Oh, heavens no,” I replied distastefully. “That is dull to the extreme. No one would think I was interesting at all.”
“Might I remind you,” he said, “that being dull is much to our advantage in this situation? We must do everything we can to keep from attracting undue attention.”
“Then you really should have been banished with someone less like me.” I flashed him a grin.
He exhaled a long, tortured breath. “Miss Lacey, please.”
“Oh, very well.” I considered for a moment. “What about Albright? The name of my mother’s abigail when I was a girl.”
“Miss Albright,” he repeated, as if testing the name. It seemed to meet his approval since his eyes lifted to mine and held there a moment. “It suits you.”
I blinked. Again, this strange sort of compliment, coming at the oddest of times.
The coach bumped as we turned onto a long lane that disappeared into the twilight.
“Here we are,” Mr. Rawlings murmured, sitting forward on his seat.
My nerves grew exponentially. I swallowed hard, peering out my window, trying to catch a glimpse of my new home for the foreseeable future.
“Shall there be food, do you think?” I asked suddenly.
Mr. Rawlings raised an eyebrow. “Food?”
“At your cottage,” I said. “You said you do not visit often, so I only wondered if there were any goods stocked there or if we might return to a local tavern for dinner. Although even if there is any food, I cannot say I will be of any use in preparing it in an edible way. Mother did not insist on cooking lessons as part of my education, and I see the lack very clearly now.”
But my words only seemed to baffle him further. “I never said it was a cottage,” he said, chin pulled back. “I said it was a house.”
Had he? Somehow, I’d fixed it in my mind as a cottage, run-down and overcome with brambles and climbing ivy.
He cleared his throat. “You ought to know,” he began, “that there are some parts of my life I’ve kept private, even from my closest friends.”
That was a very strange road to take our conversation down. “Oh?” I tried to hide my confusion.
“I did it for a few very particular reasons,” he went on, “of which I have little desire to explain at the moment.” His words lost some of that precise edge I was used to hearing, his Scottish lilt taking over.
“I see,” I said cautiously, though he was making positively no sense.
“All that to say, you might be somewhat surprised when you do see my . . . house.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Rawlings?” I finally asked straight-out. “You are running me about in circles, which is no easy task, I assure you.”
He said nothing more, only set his mouth in a grim line and waved a hand to the windows on my right. I moved to the edge of my seat and peered out the window.
Then I stared.