Page 41 of The Rebellious Countess
Eleven
Hag,
I have a shipment of Scotch to sell for the right price. Expect delivery soon.
Elias
—A letter from a son in England to his mother in France, both wanting to protect the other from certain capture.
“Ma chérie. You must wake up.”
She didn’t want to wake. She’d had the most glorious dream of being in her husband’s arms on horseback.
“The sun is up and I haven’t been able to feel my left arm for the past couple hours. If we don’t stop, I’m afraid I will drop you.”
She snuggled in closer. Loving his scent, the feel of his bicep under her cheek. Who needed a downy pillow when strong arms were available?
She felt his lips brush her ear. “Máira, we are coming close to a village. We must make ourselves presentable.”
Village. France. Danger. The warning was clear, and Máira awoke in an instant, sitting up straight in the saddle and giving her poor husband’s arm a break from holding her weight. Except he really wasn’t her husband, was he? In a fortnight this would all be a dream. A wonderful, enticing dream she would remember the rest of her life—alone.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked, as she ran her fingers through her hair. For the love of everything she held holy, it was an utter disaster.
“You needed your rest.”
“And what about you?”
“I am accustomed to going without sleep.”
She looked over her shoulder, her face scrunched in irritation. Elias winked as he pulled the horse off the trail behind a particularly large patch of bracken, the vibrant colored fronds of the ferns and bushes tall enough to graze her thighs as Elias guided the horse forward.
“You couldn’t have chosen a better place to stop.”
“I have done this a time or two.”
“Spy, you mean? You’ve come to France to spy—” A hand clamped down over her mouth. Her eyes darted around them, looking for the source of his fear, until she realized he was looking no further than her. Elias was scowling down at her with one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, the other still holding the reins and her head from moving.
“I am not a spy,” he hissed in her ear.
She protested into his palm and his lips rolled in with irritation.
“My mother may have said that, but that is not what I do.”
Again, she was forced to talk into his palm. She didn’t mind his hand covering her mouth the moment he thought they were being watched, but that was currently not the case. She bit his palm.
“Ow! There was no cause for that,” he complained while shaking out his hand.
“I didn’t even break the skin.”
“Because I pulled my hand away.”
She rolled her eyes. “In spite of you pulling your hand away.”
“He looked around the area once more and repeated his statement. “I am not a spy.”
“Your mother said you were.”
“I haven’t been able to convince her otherwise.”
