Chapter Seventeen #2
“No need. I tended to it before we rode off this morning. You’ll help me apply the salve and a fresh bandage tomorrow morning before we get on the mail coach. Come into my arms now, Florence.”
“All right.” She nestled against him without protest.
He thought she might take a while to fall asleep because her mind was awhirl with questions.
To his surprise, she fell asleep within five minutes.
He was bone weary, too. And lost in sleep within six minutes.
Trajan awoke with the approaching dawn, still half lost in a torrid dream of Florence. Perhaps his dreams of her were particularly hot because she was all over him, her legs entangled in his and her ample bosom pressed against his chest.
She looked so pretty in sleep. But dawn was approaching.
What time was it?
He quietly slipped out of bed to attend to his necessaries before waking Florence. She had slept like a log the entire night, not even flinching when he slid his arm out from under her.
What a sweet body she had.
He felt some remorse about waking her when she was obviously exhausted. But it was time. He heard the quiet hum of activity in the common room and knew the morning hour had to be approaching six o’clock.
Why had the maid not come to wake them yet?
The mail coach was due to arrive at the inn within the next thirty minutes, stopping just long enough to pick up the outgoing mail, drop off the incoming mail, and take on any waiting passengers before taking off for Bournemouth and then turning northward to London.
“Florence,” he whispered, giving her shoulder a light shake. “Wake up, love.”
She grumbled.
He gave her shoulder another light shake. “We’ll miss the coach.”
Her eyes flickered open. “I’m up. Good morning, Trajan. You’re looking awfully handsome. That shirtless, divinely muscled look suits you.”
He grinned. “Do not think to gain another five minutes of sleep by flattering me.”
She cast him a sleepy but endearing smile. “I am found out. All right, I’m up. But you are still divinely handsome. Give me a moment to wash up and dress, then I’ll help you with the salve and fresh bandage.”
“I’ve already taken care of the salve. I just need your assistance with the bandage.” He showed her his arm, which looked red and inflamed even in the dimness of the gray light of dawn.
“The doctor gave you a vial of laudanum, but you haven’t used it. Why not? The gash looks awfully painful.”
He shook his head. “No pain, love. I have but to look at your lovely face and I am soothed.”
“Gad, now who is tossing compliments? Curb that silver tongue of yours. It is too early in the morning.”
He turned away while she hastily tended to herself.
She took another moment to wash her hands and face with the peach soap that now filled the air with a delightfully fruity scent.
Then she tossed on her gown but did not take the time to lace it.
He would help her with those laces after she bound his arm.
Within another few minutes they were both dressed and had donned their boots, and Trajan helped her pin up her hair so that she did not look like a wild thing freshly emerged from a primordial forest shrouded in the mists of time.
But she had looked so pretty last night with those dark waves flowing down her back and over her shoulders. Too bad she could not leave her hair long and loose.
But a duchess could not go out in public like this.
The innkeeper clomped down the hall and frantically knocked at their door. “Your Graces! My apologies. The fool of a lass forgot to wake you. I’ll hold the mail coach until—”
Trajan opened the door. “We are up. No harm done.”
The man let out a breath of relief. “I sincerely do apologize. I’ll have the lass bring up your breakfast now.”
“Are the salvers set out in the common room?”
The innkeeper nodded.
“Then my wife and I will have our breakfast downstairs.” They did not need to wait another ten minutes for the lass to bring up the tray only to be told the mail coach had arrived and they had to run down to catch it without time to eat a morsel.
Nor was he particularly worried about their being seen in public, since it would take at least another day before Frampton realized they were gone. Then he would be running off to Bath instead of London.
Hopefully.
Trajan and Florence had just finished their breakfast in the common room when the mail coach rumbled up to the inn.
Doncaster came running in. “The coach is here, Your Grace.”
Trajan had brought down their travel pouches and now tossed them over his shoulder. “Are you ready, Florence?”
She nodded. “I can carry mine. You should not be lifting anything heavier than a teapot.”
She was reminding him of the doctor’s words, which he had completely ignored. He had not spent yesterday resting in bed and was not about to allow Florence to carry any of their bags. “A duchess does not do heavy lifting.”
“Nor should wounded dukes,” she retorted, frowning at him.
Doncaster took their pouches. “I’ll place these in the mail coach. You are the only riders booked for the interior seats, although there will surely be more passengers awaiting the coach at Bournemouth.”
It would take them much of the day to reach Bournemouth, assuming they did not stop for more than a few minutes at a time along each post inn and met with no bad weather or accidents.
The only reason to stop, whether day or night, was to exchange the worn-out horses for fresh ones and continue at breakneck speed to the next coaching inn, where those horses would be exchanged for another fresh team.
If they managed to travel thirty-five miles per day, a goal easily accomplished along these better-maintained toll roads, this would have them reaching London within four days.
The ride would be shortened to only two days if they stayed on the mail coach, since those coaches ran through the night as well as the day and could travel as much as seventy miles in a full day, weather permitting.
But Trajan could not imagine them staying on this coach beyond Bournemouth, for these public conveyances were often too crowded and the odor of unwashed, overheated bodies was too much to bear. He could hire a private coach in Bournemouth, if necessary.
In any event, no matter which mode of transportation they took, they would arrive in London in under four days. By the morning of the fifth day, at the latest, he hoped to have the marriage license in hand and be wed to Florence.
Their friends, the Duke of Durham and his wife, Fiona, ought to be in London. If so, he would invite them to serve as witnesses at their wedding. The same for any of the other Silver Dukes and their wives who might be present.
In truth, he would be honored if Bromleigh, Lynton, Camborne, Ramsdale, and their wives would attend their ceremony.
But not Florence’s parents. He did not know them and could not trust them. They had been hurtful to Florence for most of her life, and being present at her wedding ceremony was more likely to cause tumult rather than joy. Better they be told of her marriage after the fact.
“Let me help you into the coach, love,” Trajan said, placing his arms in proprietary fashion around Florence’s waist. After last night, he’d grown quite familiar with her body.
Great body.
He checked that their travel pouches were secured in the coach, and then climbed in after her, sinking onto the bench seat beside her with a grunt. “All good, love?”
She nodded and smiled up at him. “Perfect.”
The mail coach took off as though demons were on their tail. Florence, being fairly light, almost flew off her seat.
He tucked an arm around her as the coach bounced along with reckless speed, and kept hold of her throughout the ride.
Not only Florence needed to be held secure. He was worried about those letters falling out of the hidden pocket in her gown. But she cast him a reassuring glance. “All’s well.”
“Good.” He had not brought up the subject yet, but he intended to read those love letters before they were turned over to the princess.
How could he not? It was important for him to know who wrote them to Lady Simmons, if only to prevent the princess from piling more tasks onto Florence.
Florence might be angry with him, but he would smooth things over afterward. After all, she may have promised the princess she would not read them, but he had made no such promise.
Of course, he had no intention of ever revealing the name of the writer or the contents of those letters to anyone, not even Florence. But he needed to gather as much information as he could in order to better protect her. She was extraordinarily na?ve when it came to matters of politics and power.
They made Bournemouth before nightfall. Trajan had no idea how the outside passengers had not flown out of their seats every time the coach whipped around a sharp curve or hit a rut.
He and Florence stepped out and reclaimed their travel pouches.
“Will ye no’ be riding with us?” the guard who rode on the mail coach asked. As a security measure, each coach had a driver and armed guard because they traveled at night as well as day, and every highwayman recognized the distinctive red and black of these coaches.
“No, we’ll be making private arrangements from here.
My wife was bouncing around like a leaf in the wind.
We’ll take a more leisurely pace to London.
” Trajan gave the guard and driver their gratuities, knowing he had made the right decision as a dozen passengers climbed on, some elbowing their way inside and others atop the coach.
This added load would probably slow the horses and tire them out faster.
He watched the mail coach rumble off, then entered the Bournemouth coaching inn and arranged for a private dining room for him and Florence.
After ordering their meals, Trajan took a moment to speak to the inn’s proprietor and hire a private coach and guard. “Have them ready within the hour.”
“Aye, Your Grace. You’ll have my best.”
Florence was surprised that he meant them to continue at night. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“It could be if we ventured off these toll roads. But we’ll soon catch up to the mail coach and keep close to it as we travel through the night. We’ll also have an armed guard with us. We should be all right, since I am also armed, and so is our driver.”
“I ought to have a weapon, too.”
“But you don’t know how to shoot. Besides, you are too softhearted to take down a man in cold blood. He’ll grab the pistol out of your hand as you stand there gawking at him and shoot you.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I don’t want to lose you, Florence.”
She blushed. “You never will. You know I am hopelessly in love with you.”
He smiled. “Yes, I know. Mutual, Florence. First thing I’ll do once we are back at Gull Hall is give you lessons on the use of weapons. Is that a fair compromise?”
“Yes.”
Their private coach was far more comfortable, and the inns and coaching stations where they had to pause every ten or so miles were clean and well maintained despite the amount of traffic that flowed through them.
There were enough carriages on the road even in the evenings to allow for a safe enough ride. Many stretches of the toll road were lit with torches, and the horses knew the route well enough by now to canter along without need for guidance by the driver.
They arrived in London on the morning of the third day, which was a day ahead of what Trajan had estimated.
But these night coaches were faster than he’d realized, and this was a pleasant surprise.
They could have spent last night at leisure at a coaching inn, but he was eager to reach London and marry Florence.
There was the matter of the letters, of course. Once that was addressed, he would turn his attention to the final matter that might prove more difficult to solve.
Why had Florence’s family spurned this gem of a daughter?