“Should we not wait here for Sebastian?” Worried the mystic was right, Helen planned to avoid men who toiled the land, for fear of being abducted and forced to wed.
No cows. No dung. No marriage.
Simple.
Nicholas observed the surrounding area before facing the groom. “We’ll head to the farmhouse but will tell the occupants we’re married and use false names. It’s unlikely they’ll recognise us. Under no circumstances will we mention Viscount Denton or reveal our destination.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Is Jenkins able to walk?”
“He’s up on his feet, sir. Right as rain.”
“You’ll assist with the horses and then ride to the Saddlers Inn.” Nicholas dealt with the situation with his usual sangfroid.
Helen might have objected, but she struggled to think about anything other than pretending this man was her husband. Feigning intimacy wouldn’t be difficult. She trembled at the mere thought of his hand resting on her lower back.
“Do you need to take my arm?” he said, his gaze slipping over her body for the first time in years.
Heat swept over her skin. “No, I shall be perfectly fine.”
“We will have to leave our luggage. Do you carry anything of value? Jewels or personal effects?”
“My mother’s pearl necklace and earrings, and my grandmother’s tortoiseshell comb. The other items are of no consequence.”
He strode to the small trunk near the wreckage, raised the lid and froze. “A gentleman should not rifle through a lady’s undergarments,” he said, inhaling sharply at the sight of her petticoats.
“We’re not strangers, Nicholas. You’ve touched my stockings before.”
He jerked his head. “I have? When?”
She reminded him of the day she twisted her ankle. “You removed my boot and offered to carry me.”
How was it she could still picture the scene clearly? The lush meadow filled with buttercups. The cloudless, cornflower-blue sky. His probing fingers. The first pulsing of her sex.
To him, it was a vague memory.
Nicholas turned away while she rummaged through the trunk and retrieved her jewels. Keen to leave the wreckage site, he cupped her elbow and hurried her along.
“Bless the Lord and curse the devil. You were lucky to escape with your lives.” Mrs Glover, a buxom woman with ruddy cheeks and dirt embedded beneath her fingernails, gestured for them to sit at the kitchen table while she heated water for tea in the copper kettle. She turned to Jenkins. “Now, sit down and let me put some ointment on those cuts. Attacked by brambles, you say? It looks like you were savaged by a clawed beast.”
Jenkins nodded. He stood like a grumpy bear, annoyed because they had blamed his miscalculation for their carriage sliding down the ravine.
Mrs Glover turned to Helen and suggested she take Nicholas to the spare bedchamber. “You can wash and tidy your clothes while you’re waiting for the rescue party.”
Helen forced a smile. “We wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, Mrs Glover.” It was one thing to be alone with Nicholas in a moving conveyance, another to take refuge in a private bedchamber.
“Nonsense. Once you reach the landing, it’s the second door on the right.” The woman forced Jenkins into the crude wooden chair. “Use anything on the washstand. Let’s pray your friend remembers to stop at the Saddlers Inn, else you’ll have to stay the night.”
Stay the night!
Sleep in the same bed as Nicholas St Clair!
She’d likely die of apoplexy.
Mrs Glover ladled water from a wooden bucket into a pitcher and made it impossible to refuse her kind offer without sounding ungrateful.
Reluctantly, Helen mounted the stairs while Nicholas followed slowly behind, carrying the pitcher. He seemed unperturbed by being forced to endure such intimacies, while the tightness in her chest left her breathless.