Page 64 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
She was a woman, no more, no less. He’d had many, and though this encounter was seared as intensely special, it meant nothing to his life. So he told himself as he put on his hat and left.
She meant nothing.
Except, perhaps, another more exciting interlude.
He would have to handle her carefully. He would have to plan his approach. But that was something he was willing to do.
Bram was still thinking of ways to seduce Bluebell when he rode Mina into the innyard barn. The horse was indeed an ugly, sweet-tempered creature. She would serve them well. It was quiet in the barn as it was full dark, and everyone was eating or in bed. He’d be there soon enough, but he needed to settle Mina and make one last check on the carriage. The whitewashing was well done, and the carpentry—
“But why must we wait out here?” came a plaintive voice from inside the carriage.
Bram froze, his thoughts turning dark. It couldn’t be. He’d sent Dicky and Clarissa to Scotland, by God. But then he wrenched open the carriage door, and there they were, looking somewhat worse for wear.
Clarissa’s dress was travel-stained, her hair was askew, and her skin looked wan. Though in the lamplight, her fake sapphires still shone bright, probably because she spent so much time clutching the damned things. Dicky still looked every inch the aristocrat, though his eyes had that desperate, haunted look that came from spending too much time in close quarters with his wife.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Bram demanded.
“Oh, hullo there,” said Dicky. “Do come in and join us for a moment, won’t you?” He gestured elegantly to the inside of the carriage as if he were inviting Bram to dine.
“I thought you were off to America,” he snapped.
“Scotland,” corrected Dicky.
“Foul things, boats,” Clarissa huffed. “The waves were abominable. I couldn’t possibly go to America on one of those.”
“Did you try?” Bram asked.
Dicky rolled his eyes. “Of course we tried. Barely an hour, and we had to turn back.”
“The waves,” Clarissa gasped. “My favorite gown.” Then she pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
Right. She did have a kind of stench around her.
“We need your help, my man,” said Dicky with strained good cheer. “A bath for the lady, a place to bed down, and a new plan, if you please.”
“I do not please. You refused to pay me, if you recall.”
“You took what you wanted. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
True enough. “But that does not oblige me to allow you into my carriage or to feed and bathe you.”
Clarissa gasped and pressed the linen to her eye, presumably to wipe away a tear. “Oh, dearest Bram, you cannot leave me in such a pitiable state. Surely, you cannot.” Then she pursed her bow red lips. Far from enticing him, he felt nauseous at the sight.
“Look, my man,” said Dicky, drawing himself up to his full height. “There’s people after us. Surely you cannot leave us to die at their hands.”
“Oh!” gasped Clarissa. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—”
“Stop it!” Bram snapped. “Let me think.”
Both immediately quieted. They straightened in their seats, and Clarissa smoothed the folds of her stained gown as if they were awaiting tea service. And they waited.
“I did not say I would help you.”
“Oh!” Clarissa began again.
“No more of that.”
“I’m trying to stop crying,” she gasped, “but this has been so hard.” Jesus, three days away from her gasping had not been long enough.
