April Moon (20 page)

“You, Sophie, a
laggard?
” asked Harry wryly. “Oh, my, my. Pray not a
laggard,
of all things base and unspeakable. Whatever is this kingdom coming to?”

She turned back toward him, glaring. “This is your fault, too, my lord. Don’t pretend that it isn’t. If you hadn’t startled that dullard of a driver with your—your
foolishness,
then he wouldn’t have bolted in the first place.”

But Harry only shrugged, unconcerned. “You
should be glad to be rid of the man. He certainly was happy enough to shed you.”

“I’m so very pleased you’re amused, my lord,” she said, snapping off each word like a brittle icicle. “What better use for my troubles than to entertain you?”

“Oh, Sophie, I am sorry.” He smiled ruefully, open repentance that licked at those icicles. “I
have
caused you trouble. I admit full responsibility, freely and openly.”

She sniffed. Things were seldom so direct with Harry. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said, his cloak giving a grand flourish to his bow, “for being so forgiving. Now you must let me make my amends, as any gentleman should.”

“You needn’t do anything, my lord.” she said quickly. She couldn’t allow herself to become indebted to Harry, not for so much as a shilling. “You are not obligated to me in the least.”

But he swept aside her objections as if he hadn’t heard them, and perhaps, now being an earl, he hadn’t. “I’ll take you myself to the closer inn and see that you are fed and settled there for the night. Tomorrow we’ll find that rascal with your trunk, and then I’ll have my own carriage come take you wherever you please.”

“No!” she exclaimed, appalled that he’d assume such responsibility for her welfare. For years she
had been an independent woman, perfectly capable of looking after herself, and she most certainly did not wish to be “settled” anywhere by Harry. “That is, thank you, my lord, but I can manage perfectly well for myself.”

She curtseyed with the deference owed to earls, then turned and began walking briskly down the road, toward the closer inn.

“You needn’t walk, Sophie,” he called after her. “It’s a chill night for a forced march.”

“Thank you, my lord, but both my feet and my shoes are equal to the challenge,” she called back without turning. She suspected he was following, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking over her shoulder to be certain. “It shall take more than a bit of a breeze to stop me.”

“But why walk at all,” he reasoned, “when you might ride instead?”

Instantly she recalled riding with him on a summer morning so early that the sun had just begun to rise. They hadn’t bothered with a saddle, but had ridden together on one horse with only a blanket beneath them. With no grooms yet in the stable to watch, she’d hiked up her skirts over her bare legs and sat astride, nestled back against Harry while his arms had held her steady, and she’d felt like some wild, pagan princess, racing with him across the open fields….

“The saddle will not accommodate two riders,
my lord, nor would it be a proper arrangement for us,” she said, striving to push away the unruly memory.
Blast
him for making her thoughts go down such paths! “I shall walk, thank you.”

“But I didn’t mean to ride with you,” he said, coming up to join her as he led the large black gelding by the reins. “You shall have Thunder here to yourself, and I’ll walk.”

She flushed with guilt, wondering if he’d been remembering their wanton summer mornings, too, or if they’d only been in her own wicked head.

“I meant that it’s not a sidesaddle for a lady’s use, my lord, and besides, I’ve no wish to deprive you of your own horse,” she said, quickening her steps even though she knew she’d no hope of out-pacing his long stride. “You ride, and I’ll continue as I am.”

“Then I shall walk with you,” he said, easily falling into step with her, the way he’d done in the old days. Though he made no move to take her hand again or otherwise touch her, she was still so acutely aware of his nearness that the sensation was almost painful.

“At least, I will, Sophie,” he continued, “unless you have an objection to sharing the road with another traveler. But beneath this moon it’s quite companionable for old friends like us, don’t you agree?”

She stopped abruptly at that, making him stop, too.

“It’s not going to be the same as it was, Harry,” she said urgently. “You can just put that notion aside right now. What we had when we were young is long past done, finished, and it won’t ever be the same again.”

With his face patched with moonlight, his smile came slowly, almost lazily, and so filled with his old charm that she simultaneously wished to shriek with protest at the unfairness of it and purr with pleasure like a happy cat feeling its warmth.

“Oh, Sophie,” he said fondly. “Of course it won’t be the same. It will be
better.
Much better, if I’ve any say. But never the same, lass. Never the same.”

“Oh, butter and
beans,
” she muttered defensively, and with every last shred of resolve, she turned away from him and kept walking.

“T
HERE’S THE INN NOW
,” said Harry, pointing toward the long, low house with six chimneys, sitting in the crook of the road. He had been walking beside her like an unwelcome specter; he might as well be useful, and point out the local landmarks. “The Peacock. Known for its turtle soup and tamarind punch, and a blind fiddler named Orlando who knows every song ever written.”

Sophie paused for a moment, studying the inn. “You are familiar with this place, then?”

“I’ve dined there, yes,” he admitted, and no more. The truth was that, when he’d been younger, the Peacock had been a favorite spot of his in the spring and summer. Tables and benches were brought out beneath the trees and along the stream that ran behind the inn, and the fiddler had played for the dancers under the starlit skies, long into the night. The inn was near enough to London for Harry to bring a lady for supper, yet sufficiently far away as to make the trip seem like an adventure to
the lady, and far enough, too, to justify taking a room for the night if the supper went well.

Not that Sophie needed to learn any of that.

He glanced down at her, at how she was brushing the dust from her hem before she’d go farther. He didn’t remember her as being this overly concerned with appearances, or so determined to do what was right and proper. Perhaps that had come of being a governess, but for her own sake, he’d like to see her relax and be more at ease with herself as she was, and less concerned with how others might judge her. In other words, he wanted her to be like the old Sophie—the Sophie he was sure was somehow still beside him, retying the bow on her grimly unfortunate bonnet for what must have been the hundredth time this evening.

“The Peacock, you say,” she said, sounding like a general reconnoitering the field of battle. The inn seemed uncharacteristically busy for the middle of the week, with light streaming from its window and patrons noisily coming and going through the yard. “I suppose it looks well enough from here. The inn has a respectable reputation among travelers?”

“I’ve never heard any complaints,” he hedged, which, while true, was not perhaps what she meant. “If the same host is there that I recall, then he’ll see that we’re welcomed most handsomely.”

She looked up at him with surprise. “‘We,’ my lord? I know you have walked with me this far—”

“And a rare pleasure it has been,” he said gallantly, though in fact it hadn’t been, not really. They hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words in the entire half mile they’d walked: scarcely the witty conversation he’d hoped for. All he’d really wanted to do was to stop the infernal trudge and slip his arm around her waist and pull the bonnet from her head and the pins from the tight knot so her glorious golden hair would spill down her back.

And then, with her face turned up toward him and moon, he’d kiss her and she’d kiss him, for as long as it’d take to compensate for the ten years they’d lost.

“I’d hoped I’d made my wishes clear, my lord,” she was saying. “I do not require welcoming or anything else from this innkeeper. Rather I intend to make the necessary arrangements to retrieve my belongings, and continue on my way to Winchester, all as swiftly as possible. I am a most capable woman, my lord.”

“Yet even the most capable women know when to accept assistance,” he countered. “The keep is an old acquaintance of mine, and will be more inclined to help you after a word or two from me.”

But such an offer was a mistake with her, a bad one, and she bristled accordingly.

“I do not need your
words,
my lord,” she said. “Not one nor even two of them.”

“Sophie, please,” he began. “Blast, I didn’t intend it like that!”

But off she went again without him, showing far more endurance than he’d given her credit for.

Far, far more, indeed, than did his horse, who decided that moment that he was too weary to walk another step.

“Hell, Thunder, not
now,
” said Harry, leaning forward as he yanked as hard as he could on the reins. Sophie had nearly reached the inn’s signpost, painted with a cross-eyed portrait of the inn’s namesake bird. “Move yourself, you damned wretched beast!”

With a snort the horse suddenly complied, catching Harry so off balance that he fell stumbling backward into the dust. By the time he—and Thunder—had managed to recover together, Sophie had already disappeared inside the inn.

With the
whoosh
of the opening door to draw her in, Sophie felt as if she’d plunged into a river teeming and swirling with people of every age—people laughing, eating, shouting, flirting, toasting, singing, drinking, and dancing and everything being done at the loudest, most boisterous level possible, from the front tap room to the hall and up the stairway and down again. Overwhelmed by so much merriment, Sophie pressed back against the door frame, leery of being swept off into another room and never seen again. Crowds always made her un
easy, which was likely why she’d never cared for London. But she could cope with such challenges; any truly
capable
woman could.

“Ah, mistress, good day, good day!” called the red-faced innkeeper in his green apron, elbowing his way toward her. “John Connor, mistress, your servant. You’ve caught us on quite a night, haven’t you? I trust the lads have seen to your horses in the yard?”

“Thank you, sir,” shouted Sophie, standing very straight and striving to make herself heard over the fiddle player who’d just begun a fresh tune. “But I’ve no horses to be seen to. That’s my problem, you see. I need to find—”

“Beg pardon, mistress?” the man called, apologetically tapping his forefinger beside his ear to show he couldn’t understand her over the din. “You’ve a problem with your horses?”

“No, no, no!” she shouted, then lowered her voice as the man pushed his way to her. “No, Mr. Connor. My driver has left me, and now I must hire a carriage or chaise to take me to Winchester. As soon as can be arranged, Mr. Connor, if you please.”

Connor tucked in his chin and frowned as he shook his head. “Not this night, mistress. I am very sorry to disappoint you, but with all this drinking and frolicking, there’s not a man left sober enough
to climb onto the box, let alone drive clear to Winchester.”

Sophie squared her shoulders with determination. “I am willing to pay what is necessary, Mr. Connor,” she said, holding her reticule before her to reinforce her words and her credit. “But I must reach Winchester tomorrow.”

The innkeeper only shook his head again, his jowls swinging beneath his chin.

“Not from here, you won’t, mistress,” he said firmly. “It’d be worth your life to go with one of these—why, my Lord Burton! How long it’s been since you’ve graced us here at the old Peacock! Welcome, my lord, welcome!”

Sophie didn’t have to look to know that Harry had joined her. Why should she, when Connor’s greeting was as good as a royal fanfare?

“How are you, Connor?” said Harry warmly. “And your wife and the little ones? Ah, I’ve been away too long, that’s a fact.”

“Well, well, we cannot complain,” beamed the innkeeper, and then his smile vanished, his face turning solemn as he noticed Harry’s dress. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry! Here I am a-babbling on, and you in deep mourning. My sympathy on your loss, my lord.”

Now Sophie turned, ready to scoff at the notion of Harry’s highwayman’s black being mistaken for mourning. But to her shock, Harry’s expression had
suddenly gone shuttered and sorrowful, as if he truly did suffer from the deepest grief possible. She didn’t have to know who he’d lost. Automatically she reached for his hand, pressing her fingers around his to offer whatever comfort she could to ease his suffering.

“Forgive me, mistress,” said the innkeeper, quick to notice their linked hands—though not so quick to hide his surprise, his brows raised as he glanced over her rumpled wool travelling clothes and judged her frankly unworthy of the earl of Atherwall’s attentions. “I did not realize you were with his lordship.”

“Oh, Miss Potts has known me even longer than you have, Connor,” said Harry, threading his fingers more closely into hers, acknowledgement of her gesture, and comfort returned. “Friends from the nursery, you could say.”

And unexpected though it was, Harry’s hand in hers
was
a comfort, one she’d missed more than she’d realized. The only hands she held these days belonged to children, and once again to feel Harry’s familiar touch, his fingers so strong and sure as they curled around hers, connecting them together, brought a shock of pleasure she thought she’d put aside.

But neither comfort nor pleasure was proper for her to accept from him, and carefully, reluctantly, she now slipped her hand free of Harry’s.

“As his lordship says, Mr. Connor, we are friends, but nothing more,” she explained carefully, reminding herself of all the other women Harry must have brought here before her. “Nothing more at all.”

But Connor wasn’t listening to her. “Perhaps you can make the lady see reason, my lord. We’ve a great wedding feast here tonight, with all the county come to celebrate, and though this lady wants to go to Winchester, I haven’t a man here I’d trust with a horse to take her.”

“But have you a horse you’d trust with me, Connor?” asked Harry. “One fit for a lady to ride?”

“I am an excellent rider, Mr. Connor,” said Sophie, seizing the idea. “Most any horse in your stable would do, so long as it could carry me to Winchester.”

“Only if you’re riding with his lordship here, mistress,” said the innkeeper firmly, looking past her to the other room. “There’s too many rascals on the road for a lady to travel by herself. Now, my lord, would you be wanting a bit of late supper for you and the lady, and your usual bedchamber? As crowded as we are this night, my lord, for you I can—”

“No bedchamber,” said Sophie quickly. It would be one thing to share the road with Harry, but a bedchamber was another matter entirely. “No
supper, either, Mr. Connor. We must be on our way as soon as possible.”

“Ah, Connor, you hear the lady’s wishes,” said Harry with a rueful sigh. “No charming supper before the fire, no private room upstairs.”

The innkeeper frowned, studying the crowd that filled the front room. “I know we’re full to bursting, my lord, but I could make places for you and the lady by the fire, if you wish to warm yourselves.”

“Thank you, no,” said Sophie quickly, unnerved by the prospect of squeezing in with so many others. “We are perfectly fine as we are.”

Harry sighed again, more dramatically this time. “You see how it is, Connor,” he said. “No matter how agreeable I try to be, Miss Potts cannot abide to keep my company.”

The innkeeper nodded with pity, commiserating as if Sophie weren’t even there. “Isn’t that always the way with women, my lord?” he said. “But I’ll have the cook fix you a nice supper to take with you in your saddlebag, my lord. We’ll look after you proper, just the same. Maybe a supper by the light of that moon outside will change her heart, yes?”

“Ah, Connor, you’re too kind,” said Harry with a conspirator’s grin that Sophie found intensely irritating.

“Not at all, my lord.” The innkeeper bowed, al
ready backing away to fill Harry’s requests. “And pray come back to us at the old Peacock again soon, my lord, mind?”

“Why did you say I can’t abide your company?” asked Sophie, more wounded than indignant. “You know that isn’t true.”

Harry looked down at her, and though he was smiling, she knew him—and that kind of smile—well enough not to trust it. “How the devil would I know that, given how you’ve grabbed at every chance you’ve had to try to run away from me?”

“Because it’s—it’s not true, that’s why,” she said, wincing inwardly at how inadequate this must sound as an excuse. But inadequate or otherwise, what else could she tell him? That she had to keep her distance because she enjoyed his company too much, not too little? That if she didn’t, she’d tumble back into his arms as if nothing—not everything—had changed? “Because I say it isn’t true, that’s why.”

“And that is supposed to be enough for me to believe you?” he asked lightly. “Your word alone?”

Before she could answer, a man with two tankards of beer in each hand came reeling past them, bumping into Sophie. At once Harry put his hands to her shoulders to keep her from falling, steadying her, but at the same time drawing her closer to him.
Not to kiss, not to embrace: merely to hold her there, close enough, close enough.

“Yes,” she said finally, startling herself by how that single word had become a breathy sigh. “Because I don’t lie, Harry, not now or before, about this or anything else. You
know
that about me, or at least you should.”

His smile relaxed, and so did Sophie. The fiddler was playing a quick-paced reel, the floorboards beneath them shaking from the dancers’ feet. “Lord Higginbotham’s Reel”—she’d never hear it again without thinking of this moment. It was vastly strange to her that they could be standing in the front hall of this inn, with scores of people around them, and yet all she saw was Harry before her.

“That is true,” he mused. “You couldn’t lie to save your own life. Look, lass, there’s the fair bride.”

Sophie turned to follow his gaze, through the open doorway into the front room. To the raucous cheers of the guests, the young bride had been lifted onto a table for all to admire and toast, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with both exhilaration and nervousness at being the centerpiece of so much attention. She was dressed in a white sprigged gown with more white ribbons in her hair, and, like so many country brides, she was visibly pregnant. Her groom clambered up beside her, and with beer-inspired boldness, he took his new wife in his arms
and gave her a loud, smacking kiss to the whooping delight of their guests.

“How pretty she is!” said Sophie wistfully. “I hope they’ll be happy together.”

Harry chuckled, leaning close over her shoulder. “From the looks of her, I’d say they’ve already found some degree of bliss with one another.”

Sophie smiled, still watching the couple. “They look so young, don’t they?”

“No younger than we were,” he said, slipping his arms loosely around her waist as if he’d every right to do so. “Or have you forgotten, pet?”