Page 248 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“On top?” He swore and jerked back as though the coachman’s whip had cracked over his head. “It isn’t safe! How—”

“You think I do not know that—now?”

One hand at his side now, the other resting two scant inches from her trembling thigh, a muscle in his cheek flexed as though he strove to remain—or at least appear—calm.

“But if you did not travel toward family, then why? Why burden yourself so close to Christmas?”

“Employment, you wretch.” Utterly wretched of him to tempt her woebegone feminine yearnings, the ones she’d buried as deep down as a deceased cherished pet in the cold and lonely ground. “You think feasible opportunities for lodging and employment bang on the doors for people like myself? They do not. At least two others—that I know of—interview for the job I aspire toward on Monday. I thought if I could get here early, that I could break all boundaries and present myself on Sunday, in the middle of the day, not too early for a call but presumptuous nevertheless. I could endeavor to secure the position for myself, showing diligence and effort, despite the calendar.”

“So close to Christmas?”

“Correct. Abysmal timing for anyone seeking employment, I know. The agency bid me wait until after the new year, but I could have none of that. My last position paid but a pittance, though secure lodgings were included, adequate food as well, so I shan’t complain. But I must find something else and soon.”

“I cannot fathom you having difficulty. Finding a position, that is. You speak well. Underneath the stench of travel, you—” He bit his tongue.

“You cannot tell a woman she reeks.” But the chuckle she released said otherwise. He thought her malodorous? After what all she had endured today, that embarrassing nugget was the least of her worries. “I grant you,I do smell all horse-piss; your nose should be in great indignation.”

He stared at her a moment, as though one of those (nonexistent) gadflies had landed uponhisnose, then he threw back his head and laughed. Uproariously, to the point that she found herself smiling along and even lightly tapping one soggy slipper. “Well done, madam. Though you misquoteth the great Bard himself, you delight me. And I wasn’t,wasn’tcalling you aromatically fetid, I swear. The opposite, in truth.”

“Oh?” Dare she believe him? “‘Underneath that stench, I…’” she prompted.

“You smell… I should not say more.” In a fluid move she could only gape at, he was on his feet, standing farther from her than she might wish. He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and angled them downward. “Forgive me. I’m being totally improper. And toward a miss I only just met. Informally, at that.”

“Hang formality,” she braved. “I want to hear. Dear sir, just how do you perceive my travel-weary redolence?”

“Mer? Merow?” Seemed as though she wasn’t the only one curious. A quick glance over his shoulder showing the satisfied—if impertinent—feline had re-situated himself directly before the plate of remaining victuals.

“Barnabas, hush,” Mr. Chapman said without turning his head, an abashed grin her reward. “Forgive me if I say anything out of hand, Miss Thomalin. One can only converse with felines with so much wit and tact. I fear mine may have gone begging over the last months.

“You smell absolutely delightful,” he astonished her by saying next. “Rose-water. A hint of vanilla. And something else, something soothing yet somehow spicy. I don’t think I have ever scented anything so fine.”

And Brier would know.

He’d sniffed a number of confections in his day. He thought of the throwaways, the slim glass scent bottles on display out front. The ones fine ladies purchased for their reticules or to try a new fragrance.

Mayhap he could give her—

He mentally shook himself. Nay. For that way lay too much danger. Far too much appeal.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, to shift things far away from toilet water and temptation. “Who are your people?” Perhaps he could discharge his duty by seeing her returned home? Or to her destination, if closer.

You really want her gone—still?

He should.

“Brighton. We left shortly after lunch, and were met with one delay after another, thanks to first a broken wheel and ultimately the weather. And then—then upon reaching London.” That stark gaze rose to his once again, any mirth brought about from their exchange over scents and Shakespeare long dissolved. She bit her lips as though to stop either her words or their trembling, but the rest rushed out like a waterfall. “We were supposed to arrive just before dark. I was to get a room, ahead of my interview. Only the flash, the crash, the utter and complete destruction. Our coach, destroyed. The carriage that slammed into it—the people, the injured… The dead. The beast! Chasing”—her lips trembled yet again—“chasing after me. So I ran, ran like I haven’t in years. Cannot believe I didn’t fall or twist an ankle. Fall victim to the beast.”

Like a child in the throes of a night terror, her entire body quaked. Perhaps if he listened—and she expunged the memories, they would lose their hold? He resumed his seat next to her, wishing, and not for the first time this eve, that he had a more comfortable settee or chaise in here, rather than the concave cot that was never meant for extended sitting. “Tell me, if you would, of this beast you fled.”

When she hesitated, he placed one arm hungrily over her shoulders, damning the flare of heat that brimmed along his side. No time for that, now.

Not when his woman needed comforting.

So now she is yours?

As she silently snuggled into his side, he bit back twin groans. One of ill-timed desire; the other toward the nagging voice that made him face the unfathomable feelings of want and, aye,possession, gripping him the last few moments.

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