Chapter 4 #2
She kissed him then, fierce and desperate, and he responded in kind, backing her against the wall, his hands already pulling up her shift. This was madness, Peters was waiting, his father was dying, the entire inn was stirring to life, but he couldn't stop, couldn't resist one more taste of her.
"Please," she gasped against his mouth. "Once more. Just once more."
He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist, and took her against the wall with all the desperation of a man saying goodbye. It was fast, intense, both of them muffling their cries against each other's shoulders. When it was over, they clung to each other, breathing hard.
"Now I'm truly ruined," she said with a shaky laugh. "Standing up, against a wall, in broad daylight. What would the ton say?"
"Curse the ton." He set her down carefully, steadying her when her legs wobbled. "Are you all right? I wasn't too rough?"
"You were perfect. You're always perfect." She touched his face gently. "Go. Your duty awaits."
He kissed her once more, softly this time, trying to memorize the taste of her. Then he forced himself to step back, to leave her chamber, to return to his own room and dress properly.
When he emerged, properly attired in his traveling clothes, Catherine was dressed as well in that awful brown wool that somehow still made her look lovely. Martha had returned at some point, looking exhausted but pleased to report that Robert would recover fully.
They stood in the sitting room, the three of them, in awkward silence.
"We should breakfast," Catherine said finally. "It would look odd if we didn't, after sharing the chambers."
"Of course." James offered her his arm formally. "May I escort you down?"
The public room was already crowded with travelers eager to depart now that the storm had passed. James was acutely aware of the curious glances, the whispered speculations. He and Catherine had shared rooms and chaperoned or not, it was enough to fuel gossip.
They found a table near the window, Martha tactfully sitting at the next table to give them the illusion of privacy while maintaining propriety.
"I trust you slept well, Miss Mayfer?" James asked formally, though his eyes said something else entirely.
"Tolerably well, Mr. Wrentham, I thank you. Though the storm was quite fierce."
"Indeed. I found it rather... invigorating."
Her cheeks pinked. "How singular of you, sir. Most find storms disrupting."
"I suppose it depends on one's perspective. And one's company."
"Mr. Wrentham!" A jovial voice interrupted. It was one of the cavalry officers—Morrison, James recalled. The man had been deep in his cups the night before. "And the lovely Miss Mayfer. How fortuitous that you both weathered the storm so well."
"Lieutenant Morrison," Catherine acknowledged coolly.
"Must have been quite cozy, sharing the chambers," Morrison continued with a knowing wink. "Though I'm sure everything was perfectly proper, what with the maid and all."
James's hand clenched on his coffee cup. "Indeed. Miss Mayfer conducted herself with perfect propriety, as any lady would."
"Oh, naturally, naturally. Though one does wonder what sort of lady travels alone in such weather. Running from something, perhaps? Or to someone?"
"I fail to see how my travel arrangements are any concern of yours, Lieutenant," Catherine said with icy politeness.
"Simply making conversation, miss. Though if you're bound for London, perhaps we might share the road? I'm heading that way myself, and I'd be honoured to offer my protection."
The thought of Morrison anywhere near Catherine made James want to reach for his sword. "I'm certain Miss Mayfer has adequate protection arranged."
"Indeed I do," Catherine agreed. "My coachman may be injured, but we've hired additional men from the village. I'm quite safe, I assure you."
"Still, a lady can never be too careful. There are all sorts of unsavory characters on the roads. Gentlemen who might take advantage of an innocent's trust."
The implication was clear. James started to rise, but Catherine's hand on his arm stopped him.
"How right you are, Lieutenant," she said sweetly. "Why, just last night, a drunken officer tried to force his attentions on me in this very room. Fortunately, there were gentlemen present who knew how to behave with honour."
Morrison's face reddened. Several people at nearby tables chuckled.
"I say, that's rather..."
"Rather what, Lieutenant?" James asked quietly. "The lady speaks only the truth. I recall the incident quite clearly. Don't you?"
Morrison muttered something and retreated to his own table. But the damage was done—everyone in the room was now acutely aware of the unusual situation, of the night spent in shared rooms.
"Perhaps we should depart," Catherine said quietly.
"Yes." James signaled for the bill, which Hartwell brought with unseemly haste.
They walked to the inn yard together, where their respective transports waited. Catherine's carriage had been repaired, though it showed signs of its ordeal. James's horse stood ready, Peters holding the reins with an expression of long-suffering patience.
"This is farewell then," Catherine said, extending her hand formally.
James took it, bowing over it properly, resisting the urge to turn it palm up and kiss the sensitive skin of her wrist the way he had last night.
"It seems so." He straightened, still holding her hand. "I wish you safe travels, Miss Mayfer. And every happiness in London."
"And I wish you... peace, Mr. Wrentham. In whatever duties await you."
Their eyes met and held, saying everything they couldn't voice aloud. Then she withdrew her hand and turned toward her carriage.
"Catherine," he called, unable to help himself.
She paused but didn't turn. "Yes?"
"If circumstances were different..."
"But they're not." She looked back at him then, her chin raised, pride keeping her spine straight. "We are who we are, Mr. Wrentham. Last night we pretended otherwise, but morning always comes."
"Yes," he said quietly. "It does."
She climbed into the carriage without another word. James stood watching as it pulled away, carrying her toward London and a future that wouldn't...couldn't...include him.
"Sir?" Peters appeared at his elbow. "We really must go."
"Yes." James mounted his horse, gathering the reins. But he couldn't resist one last look back at the inn, at the window of what had been their sanctuary from the storm.
"The young lady seemed quite charming," Peters ventured as they rode out.
"Did she?"
"If I may say so, sir, you seemed... that is, I haven't seen you look at anyone quite like..."
"You may not say so," James cut him off. "Miss Mayfer was a chance encounter, nothing more. We shared accommodation due to the storm. That is the end of it."
"Of course, sir."
But as they rode north, James found himself reaching for the handkerchief in his pocket—hers, dropped in their sitting room, scented with lavender and memories. He should throw it away, forget her, focus on the duty ahead.
Instead, he tucked it closer to his heart and urged his horse faster, as if he could outrun the memory of her skin under his hands, her voice calling his name, the way she'd looked at him in those final moments; proud and hurt and achingly beautiful.
Behind him, somewhere on the road to London, Catherine was traveling toward her future. A future that would hopefully include the happiness she deserved, the freedom she craved, the love she was brave enough to claim.
And ahead of him lay duty, death, and a title that would cage him more surely than any prison.
The storm had passed. The dream was over.
But Heaven help him, he knew he'd spend the rest of his life reliving that one perfect night when he'd been just James, and she'd been just Catherine, and nothing else had mattered but the space between heartbeats, between breaths, between two souls recognizing each other across a crowded inn.
"Faster," he said, spurring his horse on. But it wasn't his father he was trying to reach.