His Christmas Pleasure (13 page)

“That’s my coach,” she whispered. “The one I took to the circulating library.

I told them to drive around the square, and they must have picked him up.

What do we do now?”

“We take a different route,” Andres said and drove the horses down the narrow street. He didn’t know this area, but a few answers from passersby put him on a route that would lead to the Rose and Lion.

“He’s going to hunt us down,” Abby said quietly, one hand holding the rail by her seat, the other gripping the small cloth bag she’d brought with her.

Though she was holding on so tightly that her knuckles were white, she seemed more settled now that he wasn’t traveling so fast or weaving around the traffic.

“This will hurt both of my parents,” she continued.

“You have challenged them,” he corrected. “Your father is not one to let matters go.”

“He’ll chase us all the way to Scotland,” she agreed. “And when he catches me, he’ll be furious. He’s never been angry at me before. He wants me to marry Lord Villier. He thinks it is important.”

“If you were a princess, I could see some urgency that you marry one sort of man over another. But your father is a banker.”

“A very important banker.” She frowned at him. “And Lord Villier has a leading position in the Treasury.”

“So you want to marry him?” Andres said, annoyed at this conversation. It made him feel second best.

“No, I don’t.” She drew a breath and released it with a disgruntled sound. “I just wish everything had been different.”

“And that you are marrying Freddie, the Fop?” Andres muttered, a bit surprised by the stab of jealousy.

She didn’t answer, at least not right away.

The road was not crowded here. Andres was glad they had not taken the Post Road as he’d originally planned. Her father would be looking for them there.

“He’s not a fop,” she said at last.

“Took you a moment to defend him,” Andres observed.

Her brows came together. He did like that hat on her. She looked quite adorable in it.

“I don’t believe that I should have to,” she murmured. “He’s not mine.”

“Good of you to realize it,” Andres muttered. But she had feelings for him …

and Andres realized that once again he’d involved himself with a woman who loved another man.

But he wouldn’t fall in love with this one.

The light traveling coach was waiting as he’d ordered in the Rose and Lion’s yard. Andres paid a driver, who was also one of Holburn’s grooms, to return the phaeton to the duke’s stables. He had packed a full bag for the trip and had attempted to include items Abby might need as well, knowing she would not be able to leave her house with too much in tow.

He’d had the inn prepare a basket of food, which was tucked inside the coach, along with some small pillows and blankets for comfort. It would be their traveling home for the next few days.

Abby had taken herself into the inn to freshen up. Pleased that everything was ready for their trip, Andres went in search of her. He found her sitting alone at a table in the inn’s common room. Her indecision irritated him.

“Do you want to stay?” Andres wondered.

His question appeared to surprise her. “You need me. You need my inheritance.”

He sat at the table. “I do. I have to admit I have already spent a good portion of it.”

“You have?”

“Yes. The stables need equipment, more horses. Some things we could buy here in London and not up there. I do not know what the north is like.”

“I don’t either,” she confessed.

“I made the decision and ordered supplies,” he said, conscious he was spending her money, wondering what she was thinking. “It is exciting, isn’t it?” he said.

Her clear, honest eyes took his measure. “A little. A bit frightening as well.”

“Are you coming with me, Miss Montross?” he asked, uncertain what her answer would be.

For a second, she appeared ready to say no … but then she slowly nodded her head. “I am my father’s daughter,” she said. “I think I will like taking charge of my own fate.” She smiled. “Fate. That word. How many times did you use it yesterday to convince me, and now I’m the one to bring it up.”

“Then let me give you a new word, Abby. Courage.”

Confidence returned to her smile. “I know that word.” She stood, holding her bag with both hands. “Let us go.”

That was all he needed to hear. Andres was not going to give her a moment more to change her mind. He took her arm and guided her out of the inn.

They settled themselves in the coach, and with a snap of their driver’s whip, they were on their way.

This vehicle was not as well sprung as even the phaeton. It had been for hire, so the interior was cramped and the bench seat was practical but not comfortable.

Andres had a bit of trouble stretching his legs out. He tried to be respectful and leave Abby half of the coach, but it was not possible.

“You can put your legs across here,” she said, resting her own feet next to the food basket.

“You will not be uncomfortable?” he murmured.

“I’ll be fine.”

He used her space.

She leaned against the coach’s glass window, seemingly watching the passing scenery. “I shall have to become accustomed to people staring at you,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Abby turned to him. “I was watching you cross the commons toward me in the inn. Even men look at you. Ladies most definitely do. All of them—

young, old, middling years.”

“So they look at me.”

She frowned as if he didn’t understand what she was saying. “It’s your looks.

You are tall and handsome, strikingly so. It’s quite intimidating.”

He laughed. “Intimidating? Do I scare people?”

“I believe you are so handsome, you catch them off guard. Your features are too regular, almost refined.”

“You make me sound like a woman,” he grumbled.

“When I first met you in my uncle’s library, I knew you were of good looks, but I wouldn’t have stared at you. I don’t know why.”

“I noticed you.”

That caught her interest. “You did?”

“I like your hair.” He reached over and playfully pulled the bow undone.

“Take your hat off.”

Knowing Abby as he did now, he was aware she could refuse him.

She didn’t. She untied her bonnet ribbons and removed the hat. Her curls formed a halo around her head.

“In Italy, I saw paintings of the Madonna, and her hair was much like yours.

Vibrant, alive.” He had to touch one of her curls.

“I know so little about you,” she said. “Why were you in Italy?”

Andres wasn’t certain he wanted her to know the truth. But a little of it would not be bad. “I have a sister there. She is married to some Italian count I do not like.”

“That is sad.”

“No, it is not,” he said with a shake of his head. “My sister is a jealous woman. She and I are not close.”

“I have two brothers,” she said. “They serve with Wellington.”

“Brave men.”

“The bravest,” she agreed. “I’m the youngest of the family and some say a bit of an afterthought. I did have a third brother, but Robert was with Nelson.

He died at Trafalgar.”

“I’m sorry.” Andres meant the words and then heard himself say, “My brother died at Trafalgar, fighting on the other side.”

She tilted her head, her expression grim.

He had to explain so she didn’t misunderstand in the way Lord Dobbins had painted the story. “My father didn’t support an alliance with the French. He did not trust Napoleon or the French, and he was right. Emilio was an officer. He had no choice in the matter. It made Father more angry that his son was not in the calvary. A man on the ground has more chances to survive than one on the water.” Emilio had not shared their father’s love of horses.

That had been Andres’s gift.

She nodded, as if hearing what he hadn’t said. “My parents, all of us, were distraught when we received word of Robert’s death. It wasn’t right that he should die so young, even for a noble cause. To avenge him, my brothers bought their colors. Father wonders why none of his sons wish to take up his profession. Why they have to put their lives in danger.”

As she spoke, memories of Emilio, a man he’d barely known, rose in his mind, memories he’d thought buried. He’d grown up in the village, had known all the family on sight. Everyone had known he’d been the old baron’s son, even his tutors—but they hadn’t spoken of it. Not even his abuela, his grandmother, who had raised him.

And then one day, his father had come for him. One son had been killed.

He’d been left with the bastard.

Andres had dreamed of the day his father would claim him. In the end, he’d not been enough. It had been Emilio his father had wanted. Only Emilio.

“After my brother’s death, my father was angry with grief and spoke out against the French and those who supported them,” Andres said. “It’s dangerous in Spain to speak your mind—especially since so many of the peasants agreed with him. A Spanish peasant can be prouder than any three of your dukes. Those in power could not let him continue, not unless they wanted a revolt.”

“Did something happen to your father?” she asked.

“They broke him,” Andres answered. “They took all he had left, his land and his horses.” He looked away, not wanting to add more, not wanting to tell her his father had also taken his own life. “He gave up … but I won’t. I will recover what is ours.”

“That’s why the stables at Stonemoor are so important to you,” she said.

“Yes, and the mare Holburn is keeping for me. She’s the return of a great line of horses.”

“Tell me about Stonemoor,” she said. “Describe it to me again.”

He started talking without any hesitation. He saw the estate in his mind. The greenness of its pastures, the size and cleanliness of the stables, his vision of what the house would be.

She asked questions, staying on her side in the cramped confines of the coach.

Andres found himself embellishing his ideas—just for her. He pulled upon memories of homes he’d visited, English homes—sturdy, safe places—and she seemed eager for every word.

He liked himself around her.

The thought caught him unawares. It came unbidden on its own, yet the truth of it resonated through his being. He was fated to meet her. Slowly, he began believing that himself.

Abby fell asleep listening to him talk. Or maybe he fell asleep first, she wasn’t certain.

She liked the sound of his accented English. She couldn’t wait to see Stonemoor. To see this place that so obviously filled him with pride. She started to picture herself there, dreaming of moving through its gardens.

Rose gardens, that is what he’d said, and she dreamed of them, with their big, full roses full of petals velvet to the touch.

They both woke when the coach pulled into the first inn yard for a change of horses. They didn’t stay long. Andres—yes, she could think of him as Andres now—was anxious to return to the road. He was certain her father would chase them.

Abby didn’t know if her father was angry enough; he might write her off completely.

“I think it was my Tabitha that gave me away,” she said as they dined over the cold chicken, cheese and bread sandwiches, and other good things in the basket.

“More wine?” Andres asked.

She shook her head. The wine tasted good, but she was amazed at how tiring travel could be. “If I drink more, I will sleep.”

“Why do you think it was the maid?” Andres asked.

“Just a feeling I had. And it would make sense. It was my unfortunate luck that she opened that drawer before I left.” She chewed a moment and then confessed, “I pray my parents will forgive me.”

If Andres had been Freddie, he would have laughed away her concerns. His parents carried great weight with him, but he was always discouraging of hers.

Andres was more thoughtful. “They will be upset,” he said. “We shall contact them after we reach Stonemoor and invite them for a visit.”

“That would be good,” Abby said. “Or we could return to London and see them.”

“Possibly,” he agreed, but there wasn’t much conviction in the word.

She looked at him sharply. It was dark outside, and he had lit the single oil lamp in the coach. “You don’t sound as if you’d like to,” she said.

A shadow crossed his face, a concern. He caught her watching him. “There will be many things to command my attention with the stables,” he said.

It was a plausible reason.

She didn’t know why she didn’t believe it was completely the truth … or was that another outcome of having loved Freddie? He’d made so many claims to her. He’d said he’d loved her, but he’d always had a reason to not act upon that love.

Perhaps her suspicion of Andres was nothing more than her disappointment with Freddie.

Then again, the Spaniard could be a cold character when he wished.

“Every thought you possess crosses your face,” Andres said to her.

“And what was I thinking?” she questioned.

“That you are not certain of me.”

Abby sat back, rattled by his accuracy.

“I don’t know if I like being close to someone who reads me so well,” she whispered. “Especially when I have a hard time knowing what you are thinking.”

He shrugged, pulled back—and she realized he always moved away.

Andres had secrets.

The random thought was disquieting. She knew so little about him, and what she knew was mostly rumor from women who were so batty-eyed over him that they’d lost all sensibility and decorum.

And here she’d put herself in his hands.

“You can trust me,” he said. “I will never hurt you. I am your protector.”

“And what does that mean?” she asked. Their faces were no more than a hand’s width apart, and she found herself staring at his mouth, noticing how masculine, how sensual his lips were.

Those lips curved into a smile.

Oh, yes, he knew what she was thinking.

“It means this,” he whispered—and leaned toward her for a kiss.

Andres hovered a second over her lips, savoring the yearning for a kiss and the sharp, sweet feeling of desire.

He was hard, had been for some time while watching her at the simplest of tasks—the way she held her glass or tasted the cheese before deciding whether or not she liked it.