Reckless Viscount (19 page)

Placing his hand at her lower back, Leif gestured toward the inn with a tilt of his head. “Shall we see if anyone is about?”

Abbigael pushed a few wayward strands of hair away from her face and glanced up at him.

He looked weary and the ready grin that parted his attractive lips did not reflect in the depths of his eyes.

Soon he would become her husband. And what then?

For some reason, her thoughts would not extend beyond that question. It was as if she were stepping off into the unknown, an exhilarating and terrifying sensation that made her feel somehow more alive. Would she have felt the same if she were marrying in a conventional manner to a man of her choosing? She didn’t think so, but at the same time, something in this moment felt right, as if this is how it had been meant to happen from the start.

The northern air suddenly didn’t feel quite so chilled and the light through the windows of the inn beckoned with quiet charm.

A smile rose unbidden to her lips. “Yes, let’s go inside.”

They crossed the courtyard side by side, his hand never leaving the small of her back. She wondered ruefully if he thought she would try to run. She could ease his mind, but she rather liked feeling his strength and warmth pressed along her side and the guiding pressure of his hand at the inward curve of her spine.

They crossed the threshold into the common room of the inn. Leif pulled the door shut behind them. The low glowing embers in a fireplace cast just enough warmth to give a cozy feel to the vacant room. Several tables and chairs were set in front of the fire and a solid wooden bar curved out from the center of the back wall. Tucked into the corner of the room farthest from the fireplace were a set of stairs that led up to the second level. Everything was very neat, as if it had only just been wiped clean.

On top of the bar sat a large wooden placard with a notice painted in a strong black script: “Ring bell for room, food or marriage.” Below this, presented in fine letters was a list of prices for services ranging from a single serving of meat pie to a deluxe wedding package which included a fifteen-minute service, flowers and a ring for the bride, two songs to lift the spirits, a certificate to prove the union official and a room for consummation.

After reading the sign and the listed variations of services and prices, Abbigael felt a strange bubbling of amusement. She glanced to Leif, wondering if he had yet noticed the strange advertisement, only to find him grinning widely down at her.

“Do you get the sense we have found the right place?”

“I would say there can be no doubt.”

Leif stepped forward and grasped the brass bell from next to the sign. He gave it a few healthy rings. The sound reverberated through the sparse room and acted like a catalyst to a series of noises intruding into the quiet stillness of the morning.

In the back room that extended beyond the bar, an immediate scuffling and the loud creaking of bed ropes sounded, followed by some muffled coughs and murmurs. At the same time there was a loud thud overhead, as if someone had fallen out of bed upstairs. From the room behind the bar they heard something metal hitting the wooden floor, a growled curse, followed by the flare of a light and heavy footsteps.

The glow of a small lantern spread into the common room. The lantern was carried by a large man with a barrel chest and solid burly arms.

“G’mornin’ to ya,” the innkeeper exclaimed with a wide smile splitting his round, ruddy face. Bright blue eyes sparkled from beneath furry steel-grey brows and hair in a matching grey was parted at the center of a wide, lined forehead and was pulled back into a queue of a style from decades ago. “What can I do for ya this fine and lovely morn?”

He set the lantern on the bar and glanced between Leif and Abbigael, his alert gaze scanning the details of their appearance. Abbigael got the sense he didn’t miss a thing, not the weary shadows likely present on both of their faces, the oversized dress she wore or the unbound condition of her hair, Leif’s increasingly bedraggled appearance, or Abbigael’s bare ring finger.

Abbigael wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the innkeeper’s smile grew even wider once he finished his perusal.

Leif stepped forward. “A room, please. And a man to perform marriage rites.” He stated the intention bluntly, as a simple matter of fact.

Abbigael knew she shouldn’t be bothered by such an inconsequential thing, but it bothered her. She clasped her hands together and shifted from one foot to the other.

“And which will you be wanting first, m’lord?”

Leif glanced back over his shoulder at her. She could see the impatience that furrowed his brow and firmed the sensual line of his lips. But when he caught her gaze, a crooked smile tipped his expression and he turned back to the innkeeper.

“The room first so my bride may freshen up, with the marriage to follow posthaste.”

“You’ve stopped at the right place, m’lord. My Mirren here, will bring the lass to a room already warmin’ with a fire.”

A silent young woman stepped forward from the shadows beyond the innkeeper’s shoulder. Her auburn hair had been hastily twisted atop her head and sleep clouded her eyes, but she had a ready smile reminiscent of the innkeeper’s wide grin as she bobbed a hasty yet charming curtsy.

“I can have our chapel ready ta receive ya’ in under twenty minutes. Have ya brought any witnesses along?”

“One,” Leif answered. “Our driver can act as witness.”

“Well then, my Mirren can be the second. For a small fee, o’course.”

“Of course.”

“Come, miss,” Mirren said sweetly, “I’ll take ya’ upstairs.”

As Abbigael followed the innkeeper’s daughter up the narrow stairway, she realized she should have requested a meal before her marriage. She was starving.

Then again, with the way her stomach was churning with anxiety, perhaps it was better to wait to fill her stomach until the nuptials were said and done and she was married.

Leif’s wife.

She stumbled forward as her toes caught on the edge of the last step in her distraction.

“All right, miss?” Mirren turned down a short hallway.

“Yes, I’m sorry. T’would seem the last couple days have left me a wee bit out of sorts.”

An understatement, Abbigael realized, as the Irish snuck unheeded into her speech.

They stopped in front of an open door and Mirren gestured into the room. “Here ya go, miss.”

Abbigael smiled her thanks as she passed over the threshold into a small but very homey little room. It reminded her of the rooms in her aunt’s northern cottage. Filled with the essentials for living along with a few comforting touches. Clean white linens on the bed, an embroidered cushion on the wooden chair set by the fire, an old cracked ale cup filled with a fistful of wildflowers.

“I’ll bring up some water for washin’ and some soap I made myself. Is there anythin’ else I can be doin’ for ya’?”

Abbigael turned in the center of the room and smiled gratefully at the girl who had seen a point in adding the small personal elements to the room.

“Thank you, Mirren. I don’t think so, no.”

The girl curtsied and backed from the room. The door shut with a soft click, enclosing Abbigael in a moment of quiet privacy.

She crossed to the small window beside the stone fireplace and rested her forehead against the cold glass pane. The grey she had seen on the horizon had lightened to a lovely lavender and bathed the surrounding buildings in a sort of dreamlike haze.

She felt as though she could sleep for days. Maybe she was sleeping now and this was all just a very strange dream. The abduction, the seduction, the marriage. Had it really been just two days ago that she had been preparing to return to Ireland? And now here she was in Gretna Green about to be married.

To a professional reprobate.

Unbelievable.

She closed her eyes with a long drawn sigh.

Would he insist on consummating the marriage immediately following the ceremony? It would be midmorning by then. Or would he wait until they retired that night?

She could feel the cold draft creeping around the edges of the window in spite of the warmth of the fire nearby. The heat that trickled through her blood came from an inner source, sparked to life by the expectation of her wedding night. Every bride should be so blessed to know of the pleasure that awaited them in the bedchamber, yet she knew instinctively that the experience she had with Leif was not commonplace. She knew enough to know not all men were so attentive or so skilled.

A soft knock sounded on the door. Her eyes snapped open as if she had been startled from sleep and she turned just as Mirren stepped into the room. She carried a small bundle in one hand and a steaming pot of water in the other.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She crossed the short distance to the washbowl set on a narrow pedestal and poured the water into the bowl. She unwrapped the bundle to reveal a soft washing cloth and a chunk of cream-colored soap that she set carefully on the chair beside the washbowl. Satisfied with her completion of the task, Mirren stood and wiped her hands on the apron she had put on over her dress.

The girl’s smile was filled with kindness and empathy—emotions Abbigael had not seen much of in her life.

“Is the room to yer liking, miss?”

“Yes, it is perfect.” Abbigael smiled through her exhaustion and unwrapped the woolen shawl from around her shoulders. The girl’s eyes dipped briefly to take in the bunched waist of the oversized gown.

“Do ye need any help with yer washin’? Or can I get ye anythin’ to eat?”

“No. Thank you. I believe I will wait to eat until after the ceremony.”

“Of course, we’ll have somethin’ hot and ready for ye.” Mirren walked to the door, but hesitated before passing through. “Miss, forgive me pressing, but if I may be so bold as to speak me mind. I see many a pair stop off in this town and for those I meet, I get a sense aboot ’em.” She shook her head and shrugged. “I canna explain it really, but I can see ye’re feeling a bit as if the rug’s been yanked out from under ye.”

“You are very perceptive.”

“Me pa would call it somethin’ else and warns me ta mind my own business since there’s plenty other for me ta be doin’ than gettin’ in the middle of guest’s affairs. Sometimes I just canna help myself and I sense ye’ve got a touch of the ken as weel.”

Abbigael met the girl’s eyes in surprise and felt an instant kinship that echoed below the surface of their interaction. The girl understood.

“It’s all right, Mirren,” she finally replied.

“That’s what I’m tryin’ ta tell ye. I’ve gotten a sense aboot ye and yer man. T’was obvious from the moment I saw ye. The currents betwixt ye run deeper than either of ye are aware. This union has potential to be somethin’ grand.”

As the girl voiced her perceptions, a strange tingling spread to Abbigael’s fingertips and toes, as if she stood at the edge of a terrifying precipice. The words resonated with every cell in her body, confirming something Abbigael had sensed from the start. Didn’t she feel the ripple of the very undercurrent Mirren described every time she looked into Leif’s eyes, every time his fingertips brushed her skin?

“I’m sorry, miss. I shouldna have said anythin’. I will let ye know when me pa is ready for ye.”

The girl slipped from the room before Abbigael could retrieve her voice to respond.

Chapter Seventeen

Thirty-five minutes later, Abbigael was scrubbed clean and redressed in the oversized gown. She spent nearly ten minutes alone trying to tie her sash in an artful way so as to disguise the extra fabric around her middle. Mirren lent her a wooden hairbrush and provided some pins so she was finally able to bring some order to her hair, though she would have given anything for the prospect of a full bath to soap up her hair and dunk her head under the water to completely wash away the days of travel.

No time for that now.

The entire time she freshened up, in the back of her mind was a voice prodding her to hurry. Perhaps Leif’s impatience had finally worn off on her for she couldn’t shake the sense that the deed had to be done quickly or not at all. And she wanted it done.

Foolishly, perhaps.

She could not cry foul and say she didn’t know what she was getting in marrying Lord Neville. He was an unrepentant womanizer, a practiced manipulator and an admitted fortune hunter. He was marrying her solely for her money.

He wasn’t the man she’d envisioned for herself. He wasn’t noble or steady or necessarily even very kind. He was her last resort, a final blessed opportunity to escape from the life she knew she could expect back home. He could give her children, a home of her own, a new life. With him, she could not expect the intimate companionship she craved, but she could expect passion.

It was enough. It was better than the alternative. She would make it work.

She smoothed a hand over her hair to make sure no fly-away tendrils had escaped from their place, draped the woolen shawl over her arm and left the small room to descend to the common room. For a second, she wished she had a mirror to check her appearance then thought better of it as she couldn’t imagine she looked anything but a sorry sight.