Megan Frampton (18 page)

She had to stop thinking about him. She was on her own now and she’d be fine, hadn’t she told the birds that?

“I am meeting friends in London, and my maid has had an unexpected illness.” The lie rolled off her tongue so suddenly she was surprised at herself. The man nodded as if he believed her.

The woman came out again, bearing a steaming plate of something. The odor reached Mary’s nose, and she was hard-pressed not to jump up and grab the plate from the woman before she could set it down on the table. “Here you go, dear,” the woman said, placing the food in front of Mary.

Mary settled her napkin on her lap, picked up her fork, and lifted a bite to her mouth. It was delicious, and as Mary chewed, she thought again how proud she was of herself. She’d made it here, on her own, and would be on her way to London, to her mother, before long. She didn’t need anybody, did she?

While she ate, she glanced around at her surroundings. The inn was clean and cozy, with wooden beams overhead, matching the long tables in the dining area. She was
the only patron, but still, the innkeeper had built up the fire—even though the day was warm—and various servants bustled to and fro, carrying enormous piles of vegetables and, once, a half-dozen chickens.

If Alasdair were here, Mary would have to point out her choice of inn was much better than his. If he were here, he’d be sitting facing her, his long, elegant fingers holding his fork, poking about in his food.

He’d admit, grudgingly, that the meal was tolerable, and would most likely engage her in conversation about literature, or science, or something that would draw her out so she would get all flustered. As she never had been before in her life.

If Alasdair were here, she’d tell him just why she had left.

“Mary?”

Mary jumped, dropping her fork to her plate, where it landed with a clatter. She looked up, eyes wide. There he was. Like he’d walked out of her mind and into her life. Again.

Only he looked worse than in her memory—he was unshaven, his eyes were bleary, and he had obviously been running his fingers through his hair many, many times. It was sticking straight up in spots. Not at all the picture of the flawless aristocrat.

Of course, he was still so handsome it made her lose her breath, but she couldn’t think about that.

“What are you doing here?”

He sat down on the bench opposite her and rested one hand on his knee. “Isn’t it obvious? I am here to find you, to keep you out of trouble.” His eyes traveled around the room, a dissatisfied expression on his face. “Lord knows what mess you’d get yourself into on your own.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “Look, my lord,” she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a fierce whisper, “of the two of us, you are the only one who is likely to get in trouble.” She picked up her ale and drank half the glass, just so she didn’t throw it in his face.

“Mary.” His tone made her hand still as she was lowering the glass. “I—I didn’t just come here to keep you out of trouble.”

He lowered his eyes to the table, his lashes long against his face. “I came here to
apologize. To beg you to forgive me.”

Mary opened her mouth to tell him it was fine, the way the old Mary would have, that she
did
forgive him, and then she clamped it shut again. She wasn’t going to be so soft, not anymore. He had shown her how wrong that was. “Yes?” She straightened her spine.

“I thought I was stronger than that,” he finished, shaking his head in apparent despair.

Mary’s chest tightened. Not so fast, a voice said inside her. Remember how many promises he’s broken? Remember that he is so deeply in that drug’s thrall that he would put himself and you in jeopardy just to have it. Remember he is erratic, and dangerous, and—

“I need you,” he said in a broken voice.

Remember he needs you.

“I know I promised.” He gave a dry laugh. “And you already know how well I keep my promises.” He drew a deep breath. “But I promise, Mary, that I will not do that again. Please.”

He swallowed. “Please come with me, let me take care of you. I want to take care of you.”

Another pause. “I
need
to take care of you.”

Mary lifted her eyes to meet his. She’d never seen him look so fragile, not even when he was in the throes of his illness. And having seen him suffer, she believed it was an illness, not just something he did because he could. He did it because he had to.

She just had to make sure he didn’t have to. At least until they were safely to London. Her thoughts stopped short as she realized she’d already made up her mind.

“Yes,” she replied in a quiet voice. “I will return with you.” He smiled then, a grateful, open smile that just about melted her heart. “But,” she said, holding her hand up, “there are conditions.”

His smile turned a little crooked. Which only melted her heart further. “Of course there are, Madame Schoolteacher.”

“One,” she said, ticking the point off on her index finger, “absolutely no more opium. Two, you will let me handle the money from now on.” His smile dimmed. “Three,
you will take proper care of yourself. Four, we will work on a plan to make sure your cousin can’t harm you anymore.”

Now he was staring blankly at her.

“And five,” she finished, “you will have to trust me.”

His mouth tightened, and it looked as though he was going to argue, until finally he nodded.

“You agree?” she prodded.

His eyes flashed green sparks. “Yes, I agree.” His words were said through a clenched jaw.

“Good. We can shake on it.” Mary stretched her hand out across the table to meet his. His hand was warm, and his handshake was firm. Not clammy, at least.

“And in exchange,” he said, holding her hand so she couldn’t let go, “I expect you to tell me the truth, to allow me to take care of you, and not to leave me. Do you agree?”

He was looking at her so intently she worried he could see the secrets she held in her heart. “I agree.”

When she spoke, he released her hand. She pulled it back and cradled it in her lap, rubbing it where he had gripped it so tightly.

“Is everything all right, miss?” The landlord came up and gave Alasdair a searching look. He turned to look at Mary, who gave him a reassuring smile.

“Fine, thank you. Tell your wife the food was delicious.”

“Yes, bring me food as well,” Alasdair said in his most autocratic manner. Mary winced.

“Yes, my lord,” the man replied. He headed back toward the kitchen.

“Do you have to do that?” Mary said.

He gave her a look of surprise.

“Do what?”

She shook her head in annoyance. “Act like the lord of the manor. These people are being very kind, and you are treating them like servants.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s what they are, aren’t they?”

“Be kinder. That is my first order.”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

They glared at each other for another minute until the landlord returned bearing Alasdair’s meal. “Here you go, my lord.”

Alasdair met Mary’s eyes. “Thank you very much, sir,” he said in a mild tone of voice.

“You are most welcome,” the man said. “And may I say my wife and I are very happy to have such fine people as you in our establishment. Some of the gentry treat you like you don’t exist.” He nodded in enthusiastic outrage.

“Imagine that,” Alasdair said dryly. Mary kicked him under the table.

As the landlord walked away, Alasdair raised an eyebrow at Mary. “Am I not allowed to comment, then?” he asked. He chuckled.

“Speaking of ill-tempered gentry,” Mary said, “what are we going to do about your cousin?”

“Let me take care of him,” Alasdair said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Mary’s throat constricted.

“No, let us take care of him. We are partners now,” she said firmly.

“Partners.” The glint hadn’t receded, and Mary had an uneasy moment wondering what he was thinking.

Welcome to hell, Mary
.

I have to leave. You know that.

After she’d left Alasdair had lain there, just lain there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he’d come to be like this, feel this way. He, who had sworn never to care about anyone again was in agony over a vicar’s daughter, a schoolmistress, no less, leaving him just because he’d slipped up.

It was a mistake. Anyone could have made it.

Anyone who was addicted to opium and scared of what he’d done, what he’d allowed himself to feel.

“Damn her.” He flung his hand over his eyes.

***

An hour ticked by, then two.

And he was still lying there, still filled with self-loathing, as he realized she had been right all along; not that she’d said anything. She didn’t need to. When he’d bought that opium he had realized he was disappointing her and himself and breaking all of the promises he hadn’t broken already.

“Damn me.”

He couldn’t rest until he told her. He had to ask for her forgiveness. And if she wouldn’t give it? He would get down on his knees and beg her. She had to relent.

He knew she liked him, he’d seen the warmth in her blue eyes, heard the crackle of humor in her voice as he baited her. And the past few nights—how he felt about her—well, that wasn’t important, what was important was that she was safe.

Breakfast was a stale piece of bread he grabbed from the landlord as he shrugged his coat on. He stalked outside to get Primrose; Mary couldn’t have made it too far yet, as long as she hadn’t gotten a lift. His throat tightened as he thought of her traveling alone on the road. The landlord had told him she had asked directions to the nearest mail coach.
Unless Mary had lied to the landlord—which he doubted; she didn’t have the eyes for it—he would find her soon enough.

He
had
to find her.

After an hour of hard riding, he reached the inn. He was sore, anxious, and sick. His fingers were stiff and achy from gripping the reins so tightly, and he knew Primrose was worn out also.

“Is a Miss Smith here?” he demanded as he leapt off the horse’s back. The stable boy shrugged his shoulders, taking Primrose’s bridle and nodding toward the main inn. Alasdair scowled, and walked inside.

The abrupt change from the sunlight to the dark inn blinded him, and he had to blink to refocus.

And then he spotted her. She had her back to him, and he could see the soft, delicate nape of her neck below her severe bun.

“Mary?” he said, sitting down on the bench opposite. Her eyes widened and for a minute he thought he saw a look of relief. It was replaced quickly with a guarded expression. The light in her eyes dimmed as she regarded him.

***

“What is your plan, my lord?” she asked, looking up at him with a challenge in her eyes. She folded her hands in her lap, her eyes still fixed on him. He swallowed a sip of tea and wished, desperately, it was brandy.

“My plan,” he said. “Well, my plan is—”

He was saved by a commotion at the front. The door burst open, and a group of men came, or rather rolled, in. At first glance, the group appeared to be fused together, they were so entangled.

Alasdair watched as the biggest man pulled his fist back and clocked the man in the middle of the tussle in the jaw. The man’s head snapped back and then bounced forward, like a child’s jack-in-the-box. Alasdair squinted as he looked at the man’s face; was that Richa—

He half-rose, and opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it closed when the man
met his eyes and shook his head decisively.

Alasdair sat back down slowly, returning his eyes to Mary, who was watching the fracas in horror.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” she asked, gesturing toward the group. Another of the combatants had the man Alasdair seemed to have recognized in a headlock, and was punching him repeatedly in the stomach.

The man’s expression barely changed after each blow, just grew more distant, as though he were contemplating a place very far away.

“D’ye still deny ye’re ’im?” one of the other men said.

The man spat a tooth out onto the floor. “I’m not who you’re looking for.”

The three other men looked at each other in disgust, then the big man pulled his fist back again. “Pardon me,” a lady’s voice said from the doorway. “Release him at once.”

Her commanding tone had results. The three men dropped their victim to the ground, and each tried to remove his hat, only they must’ve lost them, so they touched their foreheads instead.

“What are you doing with my coachman?” she asked, sweeping into the room. They stared at each other, wide-eyed.

“Your ladyship, this man is wanted for … unspeakable crimes,” he said, faltering. “He canna be yer coachman.” The largest man seemed to be the leader, and had stepped forward to speak.

The woman, probably around Mary’s age, stepped forward as well, and stopped within two feet of the man. Then she proceeded to look him up and down with an arrogant curl to her lip that Alasdair must have recognized from his own mirror.

“This. Is. My. Coachman,” she said, tapping her foot with each word. The man, lying prone on the floor, gave her a searching look and stood, shakily, wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand.

“And if you will excuse us?” she said, positioning her arm so that the coachman could take it. They swept out the door, the beaten man limping, but not above giving one last, menacing look at his assailants.

The three men shuffled up to the bar, shaking their heads. “Coulda sworn it were
him,” the biggest one said.

“I still think he is,” one of the others replied. “And who was she?”

“That was the Duke of Sedgewick’s daughter, Lady Alys,” the innkeeper replied. “She’s a haughty one, she is,” he said, sounding pleased by the fact.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” Mary said in a whisper, leaning forward across the table. Alasdair tried not to look down her bodice. Tried, but failed.

“Mm,” he replied.

“How? How did you know him?” she prodded, leaning back.

Alasdair gave a regretful sigh as he watched her body shift back. “He was a sergeant in my unit. I strongly doubt he’d met the lady before.”