Page 95 of Crash Landing
She cast him a sleepy but endearing smile. “I am found out. All right, I’m up. But you are still divinely handsome. Give me a moment to wash up and dress, then I’ll help you with the salve and fresh bandage.”
“I’ve already taken care of the salve. I just need your assistance with the bandage.” He showed her his arm, which looked red and inflamed even in the dimness of the gray light of dawn.
“The doctor gave you a vial of laudanum, but you haven’t used it. Why not? The gash looks awfully painful.”
He shook his head. “No pain, love. I have but to look at your lovely face and I am soothed.”
“Gad, now who is tossing compliments? Curb that silver tongue of yours. It is too early in the morning.”
He turned away while she hastily tended to herself. She took another moment to wash her hands and face with the peach soap that now filled the air with a delightfully fruity scent. Then she tossed on her gown but did not take the time to lace it. He would help her with those laces after she bound his arm.
Within another few minutes they were both dressed and had donned their boots, and Trajan helped her pin up her hair so that she did not look like a wild thing freshly emerged from a primordial forest shrouded in the mists of time.
But she had looked so pretty last night with those dark waves flowing down her back and over her shoulders. Too bad she could not leave her hair long and loose.
But a duchess could not go out in public like this.
The innkeeper clomped down the hall and frantically knocked at their door. “Your Graces! My apologies. The fool of a lass forgot to wake you. I’ll hold the mail coach until—”
Trajan opened the door. “We are up. No harm done.”
The man let out a breath of relief. “I sincerely do apologize. I’ll have the lass bring up your breakfast now.”
“Are the salvers set out in the common room?”
The innkeeper nodded.
“Then my wife and I will have our breakfast downstairs.” They did not need to wait another ten minutes for the lass to bring up the tray only to be told the mail coach had arrived and they had to run down to catch it without time to eat a morsel.
Nor was he particularly worried about their being seen in public, since it would take at least another day before Frampton realized they were gone. Then he would be running off to Bath instead of London.
Hopefully.
Trajan and Florence had just finished their breakfast in the common room when the mail coach rumbled up to the inn.
Doncaster came running in. “The coach is here, Your Grace.”
Trajan had brought down their travel pouches and now tossed them over his shoulder. “Are you ready, Florence?”
She nodded. “I can carry mine. You should not be lifting anything heavier than a teapot.”
She was reminding him of the doctor’s words, which he had completely ignored. He had not spent yesterday resting in bed and was not about to allow Florence to carry any of their bags. “A duchess does not do heavy lifting.”
“Nor should wounded dukes,” she retorted, frowning at him.
Doncaster took their pouches. “I’ll place these in the mail coach. You are the only riders booked for the interior seats, although there will surely be more passengers awaiting the coach at Bournemouth.”
It would take them much of the day to reach Bournemouth, assuming they did not stop for more than a few minutes at a time along each post inn and met with no bad weather or accidents. The only reason to stop, whether day or night, was to exchange the worn-out horses for fresh ones and continue at breakneck speed to the next coaching inn, where those horses would be exchanged for another fresh team.
If they managed to travel thirty-five miles per day, a goal easily accomplished along these better-maintained toll roads, this would have them reaching London within four days. The ride would be shortened to only two days if they stayed on the mail coach, since those coaches ran through the night as well as the day and could travel as much as seventy miles in a full day, weather permitting.
But Trajan could not imagine them staying on this coach beyond Bournemouth, for these public conveyances were often too crowded and the odor of unwashed, overheated bodies was too much to bear. He could hire a private coach in Bournemouth, if necessary.
In any event, no matter which mode of transportation they took, they would arrive in London in under four days. By the morning of the fifth day, at the latest, he hoped to have the marriage license in hand and be wed to Florence.
Their friends, the Duke of Durham and his wife, Fiona, ought to be in London. If so, he would invite them to serve as witnesses at their wedding. The same for any of the other Silver Dukes and their wives who might be present.
In truth, he would be honored if Bromleigh, Lynton, Camborne, Ramsdale, and their wives would attend their ceremony.
