Chapter 17
Seventeen
The lodgekeeper was a bachelor with a shiny, bald head and a stout middle. After he found places to hang their wet coats and hats and gloves and scarves, he put a kettle on the hob.
Arabella was glad to see neither Ewen MacEwen nor Paterson looked any the worse for wear. Particularly Ewen.
“I am a Highlander, miss,” Ewen said, rubbing his hands in front of the fire. “We are descendants of the Vikings. Ice and snow are in our blood.”
“We’ve never had a storm of snow like this in Northumberland,” the lodgekeeper said. “Not in my life. So much and it is still coming down. I think we’ll be digging out for days.”
“You are very good to take us in,” Arabella said. She still sat next to Alasdair on the bench, but, at her request, he had moved it farther from the fire. She was surprised how quickly she had come to feel the fire’s heat. In the snow, it had been impossible to think of being too hot.
Of course, part of the warmth she was feeling might be due to the man at her side. To be sitting next to him, thinking of what had passed between them, how he had told her she was not ruined. And how he had kissed her so tenderly, even when she had been so wanton with him and hurt his feelings.
He was good. There was no other word for it. Good. Much too good for her, foolish and hasty and cruel as she was. But he was at her side now, and she was not going to let him go.
She continued to hold his hand, not caring what Paterson or Ewen McEwen or the lodgekeeper thought. I will use his behavior as a guide. He does not object to our hands being linked. He does not pull away. Therefore, my hand can stay here.
“I told one of the grooms to go up to the main house and let them know we had some visitors,” the lodgekeeper said.
“Once we get you warm, I’ll be taking you up there to see the master.
There is a house party here now, but it’s a very fine manor, so there will be room for two more.
I’ll get the lad and your coachman settled with the grooms.”
“And who is yer master so I may thank him for the hospitality when I meet him?” Alasdair asked.
“Lord Morpeth, Doctor. This is his barony. And now for something hot. I’ll get the teapot ready. A cup will do a wonder, I should think.” The lodgekeeper left the room.
Arabella thought she might cast up her accounts. She dropped Alasdair’s hand and clutched his sleeve. She stood from the bench.
“We must go,” she said.
Alasdair looked at Arabella’s pale face.
“We cannae do that, I fear,” he said. “What has happened?”
“I-I . . .” she faltered. She sat down again heavily. Her eyes moved rapidly over his face, and she chewed at her bottom lip with such vehemence that he worried she would cut it open.
Suddenly, she turned her head and looked at Ewen MacEwen and Paterson. She spoke in a hushed but urgent voice.
“What did you tell the lodgekeeper, what did you tell him about us? About me and Dr. Andrews?”
Ewen shrugged. “I said nothing.”
“I said there was a doctor and a young lady with us,” Paterson said, scratching his head, “and the young lady likely needed to get inside sooner rather than later.”
“Did you mention my name? Did you use my name? Did you say Miss Lovelock?”
“Nae.” Paterson shook his head.
“And we,” she looked at Alasdair, “did not give him our names yet.”
“Nae, we didnae.” Alasdair wanted to know why she was so agitated, where this was leading.
“Quickly, we must all agree that the doctor and I are married. Ewen. Paterson. I am Mrs. Andrews. I am not Miss Lovelock. I am his wife.” She looked at Alasdair. “I am your wife.”
“But—”
She quieted him with a finger to his lips as she had done before in her cottage in Dunburn. He remembered that moment so vividly. How she had urged him to stay with her despite there being no chaperone present.
“Please, Alasdair,” she breathed.
Again, his first name in her mouth. And the suggestion they might be man and wife.
Which was, of course, his most hoped-for wish for the future.
His mind briefly touched on all that being man and wife might entail.
He could not help himself and had to shift on the bench. She took her finger from his lips.
“Why, Miss Lovelock?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “That is my old name. Now I am Arabella Andrews, your wife. Mrs. Andrews.”
Her eyes pleaded with him. Did she not know he would do anything for her? True, he thought honesty a virtue, but for Arabella, he would lie a million times over.
“Ye are Mrs. Andrews,” he said. He turned to Ewen and Paterson. “She is Mrs. Andrews.”
Ewen grinned and shrugged. “Mrs. Andrews.”
Paterson narrowed his eyes and grunted. “Aye.”
Arabella laced her fingers with Alasdair’s. “Thank you.”
The lodgekeeper came back into the room with a tray laden with a teapot and cups and saucers and set it down on a table. He went to the hob and took down the kettle and filled the teapot with steaming water.
“I’ll make sandwiches. And, after this has steeped, will you do me the honor of pouring, miss?”
“Missus,” Alasdair said, his voice suddenly deeper at finding himself a married man. “Mrs. Andrews. And I am Dr. Andrews.”
The lodgekeeper looked at him for a moment and then turned back to Arabella. “I am Farley, and I beg your pardon, Mrs. Andrews, but will you pour? I’m afraid the spout does drip a bit. And I’ll go find some sugar.”
“Yes,” Arabella said and went to the table.
How graceful she is, my wife.
“My husband does like sugar in his tea,” she called after Farley, who had disappeared through a door. She gave Alasdair a small smile. A wistful smile, not a mischievous one, and he longed to go to her and kiss her and comfort her and know the source of her distress so he could banish it.
When she brought Alasdair his cup of tea, he could see she was shaking, and he could hear a fine rattle of the cup in the saucer.
“Ye must tell me why ye are so altered, so upset,” he said in the quietest voice he could manage. “Why ye want this pretense.”
She looked around them, and so he did, too.
The lodgekeeper Farley was out of the room, in the place that must be the kitchen or pantry.
Ewen was sitting a good distance away, gulping his tea, and Paterson was looking out the far window at the gusting snow, holding his teacup to his lips and blowing on it.
“You must never tell my stepfather or your friend Thomas or my other brother-in-law, the viscount. Or anyone else,” she said, looking down.
He nodded.
“Lord Morpeth is the man . . . the reason I left London, two years ago.”
Her eyes met his.
Many seconds went by as Alasdair digested the meaning of what she had just said. Then he pulled her down next to him on the bench and held her wrist tightly. Another minute passed as he grappled with himself and her words.
For the last two years, he had told himself the incident was only important because it was the thing that had driven her away from her family.
And because she had been hurt by it. And in the carriage, he had meant it when he told her she was not ruined.
She wasn’t. In a way, wasn’t she even more magnificent than ever?
To go and start a school in Dunburn. She would have never conceived of such a thing if she had stayed in London.
And, of course, if she had stayed in London, she would likely be married to a duke of her own by now and would have been forever out of his reach.
But, now, suddenly, the incident seemed to have a great deal to do with him. With his self-respect. His place in the world. His merit. Because she was his. Well, if not quite his, certainly well on her way to becoming his.
He remembered Boyd’s words in the public house in Dunburn.
Aye. He agreed with Boyd.
Alasdair was going to beat this fellow bloody. Not for Arabella. But for himself, selfishly. And for Boyd. For all the men in the world who loved sweet women who had been hurt by other men.
She seemed to read his mind.
“You must do nothing to him.” Her mouth was on his ear. “Do not let Lord Morpeth provoke you. We will stay until the road is clear, and then we will go. That is all I want. That we leave this place, together.”
He gripped her wrist more tightly. He was still wordless.
“You’re hurting me, Alasdair.”
He came to himself and released his hold on her. He looked down and saw her wrist was red and showed the marks of his fingers. He swallowed.
“Forgive me, please.”
“If you promise no violence.”
He breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
Could he promise her this? Of course, he could. He had taken that vow long ago. Primum non nocere. First, do no harm.
“Aye.”
She kissed his cheek.
After tea, Farley and Paterson became worried it would get dark soon, so they all bundled up again and went out into the snow to walk to the stables and the grooms’ cottage where Ewen and Paterson would stay and then onwards to the manor house. The wind was dying down.
Despite the fact they had been inside the lodge for over an hour, the drifts were not as high here as they had been on the drive. But Alasdair took no chances and picked up Arabella and carried her in his arms as soon as she stepped out the door of the lodge.
“I can walk,” she said, frowning.
“I ken ye can, Mrs. Andrews.” He must be careful not to wear out her new name, but it gave him such pleasure to say it. “I have seen ye do it. But ye are short. The snow is high. I widnae want to lose ye in a drift and not be able to find ye until it thaws.”
She fell silent and said nothing until they reached the stables, and then she reached her arm out to Ewen.
“Come and find me, Ewen, if you need anything.”
“Aye, Mrs. Andrews,” the boy said and winked.
A few minutes later, they were at the front door of the large house, and Alasdair set Arabella down on her own feet.
He felt her tremble as his arm left her waist, so he put a hand on her shoulder, and when he did, she suddenly stood up straighter, thrust out her chin, and flashed him a smile that cut his heart in half.
The door opened, and Farley said something to someone, and then Farley turned and walked away, and Arabella walked through the door, and he followed.
“Bother,” Arabella said, as she took off her brown scarf. “We are bringing in the snow.”
“Do not worry, miss.” The tall, middle-aged butler with silver hair held out his hand to take the scarf.
“Oh, no, I will put my scarf in my reticule here.”
“’Tis madam,” Alasdair corrected the butler.
“Madam,” said the butler and bowed and took their gloves and coats and her bonnet and Alasdair’s hat.
“Nae, I’ll keep my scarf, too,” Alasdair said, snatching back the bit of bright-green tartan.
“And your names for when I speak to Lord Morpeth?” the butler intoned.
“Dr. and Mrs. Andrews,” Alasdair said, folding his scarf carefully and putting it between his waistcoat and his shirt where it would not fall out. So it is against my heart. My armor.
“You may tell him he is already friends with Mrs. Andrews,” Arabella said and giggled, “from when she had another name.”
As they stood together in the grand hall and pretended to look at the pictures hanging there, she said under her breath to him, “I am doing what I must to keep my pride, Dr. Andrews. I am acting like a woman who thinks what happened was unimportant and of no consequence. Which I am sure is exactly how Lord Morpeth feels.”
She turned away from the paintings and rose up on her toes and threw her arms around his neck. “And, of course, I am madly in love with my husband,” she said and pressed herself to him and gave him a long kiss.
He was caught off guard by this. The word love from her. It was like a dagger, piercing his soul. At first, it was sweet, but then he thought, She is not speaking of me but of some facsimile husband she will use to score a point against this Baron Morpeth. The sweetness became a wrenching pain.
But still his arms went around her with no thought, gathering her closer as if he could not get enough of her.
And indeed, he couldn’t—her fragrance, her warm mouth, the swell of her breasts.
He was very much aware this was his first time feeling her soft curves against his whole body.
A mere ninety-degree turn to make them horizontal, and it would be like they were in a bed together. Like a real husband and wife.
Surely, she could feel his length lengthening.
She broke the kiss—too soon, he thought—and came off her tiptoes and released his neck but did not step away. She looked down and then back up at his face. “I think you may like having a wife more than you let on, Dr. Andrews.”
And that made him smile, and she said, “I did not even have to say Open Sesame this time.”