Candice Hern (9 page)

No, she was not prudish. Or helpless. If he had to guess, Simon would say that Eleanor was a very self-possessed woman who nevertheless was not entirely comfortable with her sexuality. She was a woman of passion insofar as her convictions were concerned, and probably in other areas of her life as well. But he would wager a monkey she did not often allow physical passion to overcome her. A pity, that. One day he would like to see what he could do about releasing that passion. Of course he would have to change her opinion of him somehow. She didn’t much like him, and at the moment he looked about as appealing as a swamp rat.

But what the devil was she staring at? He looked down at himself again to see what held her attention and saw nothing but mud. “What? What is it?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you staring at me, Eleanor? Have I sprouted horns, or a barbed tail?”

“Oh.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “I am sorry. It is just…You were…My goodness, but that was a spectacular feat.”

Good God, was that a spark of admiration in her eye? The tiniest spark? Well, well, well. Simon straightened his stiff shoulders and puffed his chest out like a cock of the walk. “It was nothing,” he said, lying, for he had in fact strained every muscle in his body. But to have this woman’s admiration was worth almost anything.

They walked to the carriage where Meeks held the restless team. The postboy had done an excellent job, and Simon thanked him. He would slip the fellow an extra coin or two at the next post. Simon made a more thorough examination of the wheel and found one of the spokes to be cracked. “Blast. This will have to be mended. How far to Market Harboro, Meeks?”

“’Bout four miles, sir.”

Simon tested the wheel again. “If we keep a modest pace, I think it will hold until then. But we will have to have it repaired when we get there.”

“I assume that means we get no farther today?” Eleanor asked in a resigned tone.

“I’m afraid so. We cannot risk it with this wheel. It could break and throw us in a ditch next time.”

“That would not signify,” she said. “I could hardly get any dirtier.”

Simon laughed. “True, but you might crack your head next time. No, the thing must be repaired. Besides, I believe I would sell my soul for hot water and soap.”

She gave a wistful sigh. “As would I.”

“Then let us be off. Meeks, get us to the Swan in one piece and there will be an extra half crown for you.”

“Right you are, sir.”

They hauled themselves and their mud into the carriage and were soon moving along at a conservative pace, with Meeks carefully quartering the
team, maneuvering in a zigzag pattern back and forth across the road to avoid any ruts and potholes.

Simon was miserably uncomfortable. The damnable mud was drying, and his shirt felt stiff in some places, sodden in others. And it smelled. He lifted the formerly white lawn from his chest and found that the mud had not seeped through to his skin. He would have it off, by God.

“Turn your head, Eleanor. I cannot bear this mud another moment.” She snapped her head toward the window, and he smiled at her discomposure. He undid the linen buttons and carefully eased the garment over his head, leaving streaks of mud in its wake. Cautiously turning the ruined garment inside out, he used the relatively clean underside to wipe the mud off his chest and arms and face. Then he flung the filthy mess onto the floor and kicked it aside. He retrieved his coat, wriggled into it, and buttoned it as best he could while seated. It left a V of bare chest, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

“It is the best I can do for now,” he said. “Not precisely indecent, but not a model of propriety, either. I apologize, Eleanor, but I daresay the carriage and our muddy garments will be evidence enough of our misadventure when we arrive at the Swan, and hopefully I will be forgiven a certain
déshabillé
.”

Eleanor turned to face him and her gaze immediately dropped to his chest. She looked abruptly away. Damn. His state of undress obviously unset
tled her and so he reached for the discarded neckcloth, wrapped it once around his neck, and tucked the ends into the coat. There. Considerably less bare skin. Nothing to discomfit her now.

Or had it been something else entirely? There had been the kiss, after all, which he was fairly certain she had enjoyed before she pulled away. He also recalled that intriguing glimmer of admiration he was almost certain he’d seen earlier. He hoped he’d seen it. No, he
had
seen it. She had admired what he’d done.

His partially covered chest puffed up again with a ridiculous pride.

“I thought you said you were not in the sporting line.”

She had barely spoken since entering the carriage, and her sudden unexpected words took him aback. “I was not aware hauling carriages out of the mud was a new Corinthian pastime.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“You said your brother is the sportsman and you are the bookish one.”

“Ah. You think because I do not spend my days sparring with Gentleman Jackson or crossing swords with Henry Angelo that I am a mollycoddled milksop?”

She did not answer right away, and his confidence deflated a bit. The damned stubborn woman was determined to think badly of him. “Yes, I suppose that is precisely what you think.”

She turned to face him. Her green eyes, clear and steady, fixed on his. “No, you surprised me, that is all. You were the one who claimed to be the skinny, bookish brother, and I believed you. I didn’t think you could do it.”

That tiny spark of admiration flickered again in her eyes. He was sure of it.

“My father would not allow either of his sons to be weaklings,” he said. “He forced us into every sort of strenuous physical activity from the time we could walk. But Malcolm has always enjoyed it more than I do. He pushes himself to excel in all manner of activities that hold absolutely no interest for me. I would never dream of dropping everything to travel a hundred miles or more just to see a mill. He’s also much broader than I am. Next to Malcolm I am positively puny. And I am most definitely the bookish brother. I would be astonished to learn he reads anything more than
The Sporting Magazine
.”

Eleanor smiled. “In any case, I am grateful you are not the scrawny, delicate brother you would have had me believe. But for you, we might still be sitting in the middle of the road waiting for help to arrive. Your efforts have saved us a great deal of time.”

Simon could not hold back a smile. He had gained a modicum of respect from her. It pleased him more than he could ever have imagined. “Thank you,” he said. “But recall that we are not gaining any time at all. Meeks is taking it easy, thank goodness. But re
gardless of how long it takes us to get there, we must stop for the night at Market Harboro and get the blasted wheel repaired.”

“And wash off the mud.”

“Lord, yes. The poor coach looks as bad as we do. I’ll ask to have it washed down while the wheel is being fixed.”

“With our luck, it will begin pouring rain any moment and you won’t have to bother.”

She offered a smile and looked so thoroughly enchanting, he had a powerful urge to touch her face and wipe away the mud from her cheek. But he did not want to tamper with the meager progress he’d made today. Yes, she’d let him kiss her, but it had been more sweet than passionate. He would not rush his fences. He wanted that tiny germ of admiration he’d seen to grow and prosper. Nothing would please him more than to shake off the mantle of the Busybody and appear to her as a man. An ordinary man who also happened to be a hopeless Romantic, who adored women, and who was coming to adore this one beyond all reason.

T
hey arrived in Market Harboro not a moment too soon. If Eleanor had been forced to sit in her muddy clothes for another minute, she thought she might have started screaming. Or perhaps removing the offending garments, as Simon had done. He still looked as grimy and mucky as she did, but at least he’d been able to make himself a bit more comfortable.

The sight of his bare chest had made her anything but comfortable. Thank heaven he had partially covered it with his neckcloth. Even so, it was another reason to be glad this leg of the journey was coming to an end. Neither of them mentioned the kiss. Eleanor preferred to pretend it had never happened. Simon probably thought it too insignificant to mention.

It was late, and the town was relatively quiet,
with only a handful of markets still doing business. One of them was situated beneath a lovely old timber-frame structure raised above the street on oak legs. Just beyond it was a church with an impressive spire overlooking the town. Eleanor remembered both distinctive buildings from another time she had come through the town, many years before. It was not a time she cared to dwell upon.

“Ah. This must be the Swan.”

She looked to the other side of the High Street and saw that he must be right. Overhanging a handsome bow-fronted building was a fabulously intricate wrought-iron grill with a painted swan in the center. The postboy steered the team through an arched entrance just beneath the large sign, and Eleanor expelled a breath in a long sigh.

Simon smiled. “I feel just the same,” he said. “I am sick to death of all this dirt.”

When the carriage came to a halt, Simon leaped out and took a quick look at the back wheel. He then came to the other side and helped Eleanor down. “Not a moment too soon,” he said. “That wheel is about to go. Let me arrange for our rooms, and then I will see about getting it repaired.”

The innkeeper, a barrel-chested, cheerful man who introduced himself as Mr. Pettigrove, was extremely solicitous and sympathetic about their accident. He also had a message from Hackett, which he promptly turned over to Simon.

“Still on the trail,” Simon reported after scanning the note and handing it to Eleanor. “That is
good news, anyway. Derby is the next stop where they were seen. We’re to find more instructions there at the King’s Head.” He turned to address the innkeeper. “I hope you can accommodate my cousin and me. Two bedchambers and a private parlor?”

Eleanor did not object to being cousins for another night. She was too tired to protest in any case. Thankfully, the rooms were available. Or perhaps Simon had ensured their availability by slipping the innkeeper a few coins. She sincerely hoped Simon was as rich as she assumed him to be, for she was certainly costing him a great deal of money. How was she ever to repay him for such generosity? With a few kisses? Or would he expect more?

The innkeeper’s wife showed Eleanor to her bedchamber while Simon went to see about the wheel. Plump and round as a Christmas pudding, with gray corkscrew curls peeking out from an enormous mobcap, Mrs. Pettigrove made sure a fire was lit and the shutters drawn. She fussed and fretted over the sorry state of Eleanor’s clothes, chattering without pause the whole time.

“All this horrid mud! It’s a right shame, it is, the state of the roads these days. Well, it’s no use complainin’, I expect. Can’t stop the rain, can we? Here, let me help you out of these things, dearie. Oh, will you just look at this nice pelisse. But don’t you worry. We’ll dry it by the big fire in the kitchen and that mud’ll brush right off, you’ll see. Oh, but this muslin dress tut, tut…it’ll have to be washed out.
And will you look at that? The mud soaked clear through to your chemise. You’d best give me that, too. Turn around, dearie, and I’ll unlace your corset.”

The woman continued to chatter nonstop as she helped Eleanor out of her clothes and into her wrapper. She also took the dress Eleanor was to wear for dinner and draped it by the fire to let out the wrinkles.

“I’ll just take the rest of these things downstairs and we’ll get ’em all cleaned up for you,” the landlady went on. “You’ll have ’em back afore breakfast or my name ain’t Pettigrove. A little mud never ruined nothin’. Oh, and just look at those boots. You be sure to put them out tonight and our boy’ll take care of ’em. You might as well give me them stockin’s, too, dearie. I’ll have ’em washed out with the dress. Now you just sit right and tight and I’ll have some nice hot water and soap sent up and then you’ll feel much better, eh?”

When she had gone, Eleanor sank down onto the feather bed, exhausted by the events of the day as well as the woman’s incessant chatter. She fell back against the billowing mattress and savored luxurious solitude. There was much to think about, all of it upsetting in one way or another.

She forced other matters aside and gave consideration to Belinda. Though her niece’s plight had always been uppermost in her mind, Eleanor had allowed other concerns to occupy her thoughts to
day, and she felt guilty for it. Belinda’s safety was the only thing that mattered. She must never forget that.

She and Barkwith were still on the road and apparently together. Where was he taking her? The Midlands area was prime hunt country. Lots of men kept hunting boxes in the Shires. Had Barkwith borrowed the use of one from a friend, one that sat empty now, out of season? Wherever it was, Eleanor had faith in Hackett and Mumby. They would find the place. If only Belinda could be trusted to stay there and not go flying off on her own when she discovered the truth.

Barkwith, though, would be unlikely to spoil his game so soon. He would keep Belinda in a daze of physical passion for a bit longer. And the poor girl would be so in love, she wouldn’t realize what was happening.

Ah, Belinda.

And what about Benjamin? Would her brother toss Eleanor out on her ear when he found out what a careless guardian she’d been? What would she do then? Return to her parents’ home? No. Not that. She would never go there again. Perhaps Constance would help her find a position as companion to a respectable older woman.

A chambermaid arrived with hot water, soap, and towels, and Eleanor set about washing off the dirt and mud of the road. She would have loved to soak in a deep tub filled with hot, scented water,
but she supposed such a luxury was too much to ask at a coaching inn, and would have to wait until she returned home.

She wondered when that would be. How much longer before they caught up with the runaways? Her thoughts drifted again to all that lay ahead for Belinda, the crashing depths of despair after such heights of joy and passion. Her heart ached for the girl, even at the same time she wanted to throttle her.

Eleanor poured the hot water into the ceramic basin and removed her wrapper. She dipped a coarse cloth into the water and began to wash. Lord, but it felt good to be clean again. While she scrubbed away the day’s grime, her mind drifted to the events of the afternoon. The ribbon at her wrist, which she was inexplicably loath to remove, reminded her of the Gypsy woman, and she wondered again if her words had been a curse. Given all that had happened, all the delays in this journey, it was a definite possibility.

And then there was Simon.

She
would
think of him while she stood naked in the middle of the room. Damn the man and his lean, muscled body and his bare chest.

Eleanor’s new opinion of Simon both confused and disturbed her. It had been so much easier to feel contempt for a man she did not respect, whose opinions she scorned, and who was not at all attractive to her. His romantic idealism, which she de
spised, had colored her perception of him as a man, so that she had considered him weak in every way.

It was disconcerting to admit she had been wrong on several counts. She still could feel little but disdain for his role as the Busybody, though she was coming to accept that his underlying philosophy might be built on more than romantic pipe dreams. His convictions, wrong though they be, were as strongly held as hers.

Strange, but it had taken a display of physical strength for her to recognize other strengths in him. Or was she only trying to convince herself she was not that shallow, not that easily impressed, and that it was not merely his physical attributes she found attractive?

Yes, absurd as it seemed, she did indeed find him attractive. She wondered if she had thought so all along but suppressed the idea because of his role in Belinda’s flight. Constance had certainly found him attractive. Actually, she’d found him adorable, and she probably hadn’t even seen the dimples.

Eleanor finished washing and stood close to the fire while she dried herself off. She shook out the dress Mrs. Pettigrove had draped over the chair. It was the same one she’d worn last night. Would Simon notice? Did she care if he did?

It had been a long time since Eleanor had allowed herself to be interested in a man. She did not
want
to be interested. It was too dangerous.

For now, though, there was Belinda to worry about. Until she was found and her situation resolved, Eleanor could not afford to be distracted by anything else.

Sometime later, clean and dressed, she joined Simon in the private parlor he had hired for their supper. It was a small, cozy room with old wood paneling, comfortable furniture, and a fire blazing before an elaborate iron fireback that recalled the inn sign. Simon stood when she entered. He spoke over his shoulder as he walked to a sideboard and poured a glass of wine. “You will have to make do with only myself tonight,” he said. “No mothers and daughters to entertain us.”

“What a pity. You might have further honed your advice-giving skills.” She accepted the glass he offered and noted his smile when he saw the red ribbon still tied around her wrist. She had told him she would not remove it. It was to act as a reminder of her mission to find Belinda, nothing more, and she saw no reason it should make him smile. She sat in the chair he pulled out for her at the round pedestal table in the center of the room, and glanced over her shoulder when he seemed to linger a bit longer than necessary. What was he staring at? Simon picked up his wineglass and went to stand near the fire, and Eleanor took the opportunity to study him while he updated her on the carriage wheel.

Having once admitted to herself that he was good-looking, she wondered how she had ever
thought otherwise. He was beautifully dressed, as always, in pristine linen, a bottle green coat, and striped silk waistcoat, and she now knew the clothes that looked so well on him owed much to the body beneath. His face was equally well shaped, with the clean lines and planes of Greek sculpture, set with eyes the color of a summer sky. Though she’d always preferred dark hair on a man, she was beginning to think auburn hair was really rather attractive. Even though it
was
a dark red, at least Simon’s hair wasn’t carroty orange. It was more like burnished copper. It was also thick and slightly wavy, and made one wonder what it would feel like to run one’s fingers through it.

Heavens, what was wrong with her? Run her fingers through his hair? How perfectly ridiculous.

“I hope you aren’t too disappointed, Eleanor.”

And now perfectly embarrassing as well. She had no idea what he was talking about. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled, showing even, white teeth. And dimples. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“I’m sorry, Simon. I was woolgathering.” She certainly was, but the last thing she wanted was for him to know he had been the object of her thoughts. It would not do to have him getting the wrong impression. She was much more comfortable when they argued. “Tell me again why I am going to be disappointed?”

“I was saying that the wheelwright will not have the spoke repaired until after ten tomorrow morn
ing. If you were hoping for an early start, I’m afraid it’s simply not possible.”

“Oh, blast! Another wretched delay. I wonder if we shall ever find Belinda.”

“Perhaps they’ve had equally bad luck on the muddy roads and are not so far ahead as you might think.”

“Far enough. Two nights together already.”

Simon pulled up a chair and sat across the table from her, bringing with him the wine decanter. Her glass was still almost full, but he refilled his own and took a sip before speaking.

“I know how distressing this must be for you,” he said.

“It is worse than distressing, I assure you, to realize that Belinda has more than likely thrown her life away for that man. Do not assume you know how I feel.”

“I’m sorry, Eleanor. For everything, truly. I know you do not wish to hear this, again, but they
are
still heading north. They have so far kept to the primary coach route that will take them straight through Carlisle to Gretna. They may be—”

“No, they are not going to Gretna. I have told you so, over and over.”

“Is there something you are
not
telling me? Something that makes you so certain of Barkwith’s plans?”

There was a great deal she was not telling him. “I know his type, that is all. He may have taken her to a hunting box somewhere right here in the Shires.”

“Just for the sake of argument—”

“Which you are forever instigating on this topic.”

“—let’s say they do go to Scotland and marry. Just pretend for a moment that it happens. What would you do?”

“Do? There isn’t much I
could
do in such an unlikely situation, is there?”

“Would you accept it?”

“Yes, of course. I would prefer it above any other outcome, in fact. It is the only solution that allows Belinda to retain some level of respectability. Though heaven only knows what sort of life she would have with that man.”

“She loves him, you have said.”

“As if that mattered.”

“People who love one another often find contentment together for the rest of their lives. Love can transcend the years, you know.”

“Bosh. Another one of your romantic fantasies.”

“I’m sorry you do not believe in the longevity of marital happiness. It is a life’s goal for many.”

“An unachievable goal. Passion is short-lived. Once that fire is out, there is little to keep a marriage warm.”