Chapter Six
IAN knew Miss Harrell had her temper up, and he didn’t care. She was a job, nothing more, and he couldn’t wait to wash his hands of her once they got to London.
No woman, no person, had ever held the ability to make him feel this small. But she could.
And he didn’t know why.
One moment she could be warm and inviting and in the next, with a haughty lift of her chin or a cold stare, she could say clearer than words she thought him beneath her notice—even if she had finally condescended to calling him by his name.
Meanwhile, he’d been noticing her more than he should.
Of course, what man wouldn’t? Those firm, round breasts of hers begged to be touched. He’d not been so busy saving both their hides from the fire he hadn’t noticed them.
Her waist, in that ridiculous cinch belt, appeared so tiny he thought he could span it with his hands.
And she was long-legged, too. He couldn’t help but notice that fact when he’d boldly untied her garters.
Nor was he immune to her tousled mop of hair, as red as a ripe apple and smelling just as sweet…
or those green-flecked eyes that revealed a startling intelligence—and a wealth of na?vety.
God save him from bloody supercilious self-important virgins.
Of course, it was far wiser for him to carry a grudge against her, especially since they had to be practically joined at the hip until he saw her home safe and untouched.
Pirate Harrell would not take kindly to having his precious daughter shagged by an Irish bounder.
He’d probably draw and quarter any man for the offense, and Ian was not about to make such a powerful enemy.
“Ready to go?” he asked, deliberately brusque.
“Of course.” She stood, regal as a queen in her tartan, and flipped her shining tangle of curls over her shoulder practically whacking him in the face as if he wasn’t there.
Ah, yes, he could use the anger.
“Then let’s go,” he said. As they set off, he made sure to keep his eye on her first steps. He was pleased she moved better now that her shoes weren’t rubbing her feet raw.
For the next few hours, they traveled without speaking. The overcast day offered them no encouragement. Ian knew she was tired, and yet, she didn’t even complain once. He was exhausted himself. He knew they needed some good luck. They couldn’t keep on this way.
His prayers were answered when, coming to a crossroads, they met a farmer with an oxcart loaded with grain bags heading in the direction they were walking.
Without hesitation, Ian asked for a ride for his “wife.”
“An Irishman, are you?” the farmer asked in a heavy Scots’ brogue. “I knew an Irishman once.”
“Didya now?” Ian countered, drawing out his own accent.
“A good laddie he was and always one with a joke. What are you and the missus doing up here?”
Ian had his tale ready. “She’s Scottish and I’m taking her home to see her family.” Then, in a lower voice, he added, “She’s in a delicate condition,” as a bit of sport and was repaid with a horrified glare from Miss Harrell.
The Scotsman caught the look and had surprising sympathy for Ian. “A mother-to-be? Come up in my wagon and make yourself comfortable. I’ve got seven wee ones at home and know this isn’t easy. Is this your first?”
He’d asked the question of Miss Harrell but Ian answered smoothly and with just the right touch of pride, “Yes, it is. Here, Sweetie, let me help you up.” He offered his hand to help her up into the wagon.
She appeared ready to slap it away with more vigor than she’d shown when he’d removed her garters. She leaned close and with a smile over clenched teeth said for his ears alone, “What sort of game are you playing? We are not married!”
“Would you rather I tell him the truth?” he mused. “I wonder what would happen if Fielder found out there was a man and a red-haired woman traveling singly around the countryside?”
“Fielder is watching the border. You heard him say so yourself.”
“I don’t take my enemy’s movements for granted. Besides,” he said soothingly, “what if someone were to find out you were in my company for days on end? It’s a simple ruse but necessary. We pretend who we are not and no one’s the wiser.”
He’d caught her there. Reluctantly, she agreed. “But I can walk faster than that animal can pull this cart.”
“True,” he answered, “but you need to stay off your feet.” He raised his voice on the last so the Scotsman would think she was having a bit of pregnancy pique. “You have the opportunity to ride, don’t be foolish.” He held out his hand again.
This time, she took it.
The farmer’s name was William Rae and he was a good sort, solid and honest. “My wife calls me a laggard and I refer to her as an anvil. Ah, to be young again!” He shook his head as if remembering and then enjoyed offering Ian advice on rearing children and the handling of pregnant women.
“Not to say they are easy to manage when they aren’t in the family way,” the farmer said.
He dropped his voice. “And you’ve a redhead. I hear they are difficult.”
“If only you knew the truth,” Ian said fervently, and could almost feel the burn of Miss Harrell’s temper.
In the back of his mind, he had assumed she would sleep. They both needed some.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t.
Of course.
She only lay on top of the grain, looking daggers at him, which only encouraged Ian to spin tales of his own about their imaginary happiness as man and wife. He particularly relished his new pet name for her, “Sweetie.”
Rae also gave him good information on what to expect of the countryside on their journey to Appin. He’d visited the area more than once. “Tough going, if the weather is not with you. You’ll most likely see rain, maybe some sun, and possibly snow—all in the same hour.”
“We shall take our chances,” Ian answered.
All too soon, they had to part ways. Ian thanked the man and gave him a coin for his trouble.
The farmer had barely taken the bend in the road and disappeared from sight when Miss Harrell turned on him. “I thought you didn’t have any money, Sweetie.”
Ian choked back a laugh. “I have enough to get us where we are going and pay for passage to London, if we are careful.”
She hummed her disbelief, then changed her tack. “Well, at least I should be able to sleep in a bed tonight.”
It was on the tip of Ian’s tongue to contradict her.
At first he thought they’d be wiser to sleep in the open or borrow a night on some farmer’s hayloft.
But then he changed his mind. He’d had his hands full resettling his sisters and their brood before charging off to Scotland.
He needed sleep. It would be easier to guard Miss Harrell in a room at some local inn than to sit watch in the open.
If he put himself across the doorway, he might even manage a few winks of sleep.
Mentally calculating how much money he had in the leather bag he wore on a cord around his neck and how much they might need for passage to London, he decided that a night in a modest inn would be a good investment.
“We’ll see what we find,” he answered and walked on.
She followed. They moved upward, through the forests with its rivers and small burnies and into the mountains and shaggy beauty of the Highlands.
He thought she did little more than concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. However, an hour on their way she surprised him by asking, “Where is your family?”
Ian paused. “Where…?”
“Yes. Are they are in London? Do you live there, or in Ireland?” she asked.
“London.” Why the devil was she asking these questions? And then, for reasons he couldn’t fathom he elaborated, “I put them up in a decent inn in Chelsea. A good place. A safe one.” Or so he hoped they would be safe until he returned.
He could feel her glance at him, and he self-consciously regretted revealing so much. His story was not one he was proud of. Lengthening his stride, he pushed forward even harder, and she fell silent.
Three hours later, as evening approached, they came to a village with an inn nestled beside a small lake. Ian knew it was time to stop. Miss Harrell was exhausted. He led her inside and was surprised to see the taproom crowded with sportsmen of all shapes and sizes.
The moment they saw Miss Harrell, even as tired and bedraggled as she was, every male eye centered on her.
Ian guided her to a table in the corner and looked around for service.
The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, and the sole barmaid and lad working the ale keg were too busy to pay attention to them.
He frowned at the staring company of men and they turned their attentions back to their drinks and conversation.
“Sit here while I find the innkeeper and speak about a room,” Ian ordered. “I’ll also order supper. Do you have a preference?”
She shook her head, too tired to talk. He knew how she felt.
Then, as he started away, she said, “Tea. I’d like a pot of tea. Keemum, please.”
“Kee-what?”
She made a soft, exasperated sound, as if this question was always so tiresome. “Keemum. It’s a tea.”
Of course, my lady, he wanted to drone like a footman, but bit his tongue. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She nodded and he felt dismissed.
Pulling his temper in hand, Ian sought the innkeeper. Catching the attention of the overworked barmaid, he ordered their dinners and a cup of tea for both himself and Miss Harrell. He didn’t even bother mentioning a specific type of tea.
The innkeeper was in the hallway outside the taproom door. As Ian had feared, rooms were at a premium.
“There was a fight and a horse sale over in Douglas today,” the landlord said.
He was a portly fellow with a florid complexion and a head full of curly black hair.
“However, you are in luck. We had some lads staying here—Daniel MacGregor and his brother, both bad news—” He took a moment to spit on the floor at the name.
“I had to throw them out. I’ve their room left.
It’s in the front of the house, over the door.
Top of the stairs, second one to the left. ”
“It’s mine,” Ian answered and paid for the night, the cost a bit more dear than he’d planned. He started back into the taproom, but when he caught sight of Miss Harrell, he paused for a moment.
In the dingy, smoky light, her hair was as bright as a torch and, with her delicate bone structure and innate grace, she could pass for a princess among thieves.
Even as Ian stood there, a tall, thin man in a well-cut coat—and booted heels that weren’t round like Ian’s—approached her.
The man said something, and instead of sending him packing, Miss Harrell actually acted flattered by his attentions.
She blushed and lowered her gaze in a manner she’d not practiced on Ian.
He was across the room in a snap. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked the intruder, pleased to note he was several inches taller than the man.
“I was asking this young lady about her tea,” the man fawned congenially. “The scent of it is unique.”
“Aye, it is,” Ian answered, not believing a word. “It’s Keemum.” He looked the man in the eye, daring him to carry the charade further.
The stranger’s gaze slid from Ian to Miss Harrell, and although there was hint of regret, he said, “Thank you.” He had no choice but to turn and leave, not with Ian ready and willing to take his head off.
Ian sat down heavily on the bench against the wall next to Miss Harrell forcing her to move over.
“He only asked about the tea,” she said quietly.
“If I hadn’t walked up when I did, he would have had you upstairs with your skirts over your head.”
He’d spoken recklessly, and immediately regretted how crude he’d sounded, especially when fire lit her eyes at the effrontery. He attempted an apology of sorts, “I’d have said the same thing to my sisters.”
“And would they be as insulted as I am?” She practically snarled the words.
“Yes.” He took a sip of the damned tea, finding it so bitter he wanted to spit it out.
Fortunately, the bar lad arrived with their meals—lamb shanks and peas—and Ian gave the food his attention. It wasn’t fancy fare but it was tasty enough for a hungry man. He was finishing his plate when he realized Miss Harrell had barely taken a bite.
“What is it?” he asked.
She made one of those feminine shrugs that said louder than words that something did not please her even as her lips said, “Nothing.”
Ian set down his fork, embarrassed at how quickly he’d eaten. But he’d been damn hungry. “You don’t like the food.”
“I’m not fond of lamb,” she murmured. A heavy sigh and then she added, “Or this place. It’s different…Do you think the sheets are clean?”
Once he’d left his mother’s home, Ian had never worried about clean sheets again, but now, looking around the taproom, he began to feel dirty. Coarse. Clumsy. Because at one time, he would have noticed those things.
He hated the regrets. Regrets that he’d made rash decisions that had cost his family so much of their pride. Regrets that nothing had worked as he’d planned. Regrets that he was here and not on his way to London.
He took himself in hand. There was no crying about the past, because there was no changing it.
Brutally, he forced himself to say, “If you aren’t going to eat yours, I’ll have it.”
With a shudder, she pushed her plate toward him and he pretended to enjoy the meal with great relish. And why shouldn’t he? At three shillings five, the meal and the tea cost him more than whiskey.
But he didn’t feel good when he was done. If anything, he was more disgruntled than ever, and dead tired. Why else would he be deliberately provoking her into a fight? Or thinking of matters best left untouched?
Fortunately, she had the good sense to keep her vaulted opinions to herself, although much of what she was thinking shone in her expressive green eyes.
Ian pushed the table away. “Come, we’re both tired.”
She didn’t argue but rose and followed him out of the taproom. He led her up the stairs and opened the door to their room. The furnishings were simple—a bed beneath a window, a washstand, a chair—but it appeared a haven.
Miss Harrell glided past him into the room like it was her divine right. “Well, good night,” she said briskly and attempted to shut the door before he’d even entered.
He stopped the door with his hand. “Wait, I sleep here too.”
Her brows flew together. “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t. You must get your own room.”
“Even if there was a room to be had, and there isn’t, I’ve not the money for it. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t care,” she said crossly. “It wouldn’t be right for us to be in here together. What if the innkeeper found out?”
“The innkeeper doesn’t care—”
“Did you tell him we were man and wife?” she accused, her eyes narrowing.
“No,” he said, his temper breaking. “I told him you were my bloody mistress.
She slammed the door in his face so hard the wall shook.