Page 51 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Yet Beatrice engaged every single passenger in conversation, with the exception of the infant. She did, however, ask the baby’s mother if she could hold the child, and when given permission to do so, she gently rocked it in her arms. The baby made soft noises as it grabbed for the ribbons on Beatrice’s bonnet. All the while, she continued to talk to the others in the mail coach.
“I’ve never been to Hartlepool,” she said to a middle-aged Black couple who said they hailed from that town. They had introduced themselves as John and Lydia Maye. “It must be lovely with the sea just outside your door.”
“It is, madam,” Mr. Maye answered eagerly. “Why, when we were courting, I took her for walks all about to look at the sea. Do you remember Seaton Snook, my love?” he asked his wife, who blushed.
“Well, I... that is...” Lydia Maye murmured.
“Clearly, you remember,” Beatrice said with a laugh, and the Mayes also chuckled.
So it went for the whole of the day’s journey. She engaged the entire party in lively conversation, sometimes singing to the baby, asking questions of each person that showed she was interested in hearing about their lives. Nothing seemed too dull a topic for her, from the best way to bake a honey cake to the proper care of geese to listening, riveted, to an aspiring novelist relate the plot of their work in progress.
It wasn’t merely chitchat to fill the time. She truly seemed to care about these people that she would never see again. Things continued in this vein when they paused at a public house for luncheon, losing a few passengers—including the mother and her baby—and gaining new ones, and then on into the evening.
But she didn’t chatter. She sensed when the party’s energy flagged, and she let the mail coach fall into a peaceful silence. A few passengers nodded off.
Across the interior of the vehicle, his gaze met hers, and heat sizzled along his spine. It was captivating to watch her all day, see how her hands moved through the air as she talked, watch the pink in her cheeks when something somebody said delighted her.
What must it feel like to dive headfirst into every new adventure? To eagerly experience and celebrate what it meant to be alive in this world? Unlike him, she didn’t cautiously, carefully assess situations and make meticulous—Rotherby and the others might sayarduous—decisions.
It was mystifying, and yet... her spell wove around him, colorful as a meadow, from which he could not quite free himself. Did he want to?
Fuck if he knew.
The late earl had tried to erase her or bind her to his will—but she hadn’t let it destroy her. She rose up in a cascade of fire like a mythic creature.
No, not a mythic creature: a living woman. He could still taste her on his tongue and hungered to know her taste again.
Finally, the mail coach stopped for the night at a small town. As the passengers wearily climbed down from the vehicle, groaning and stretching, he waited for her outside. When she appeared, she took his hand, her fingers tightening around his. They silently approached the inn, a rather ramshackle building that, whilst clean, could stand a few repairs.
Inside, he and Beatrice arranged a room with the innkeeper. It did not escape Duncan’s notice that she made no mention of a second room, and like hell would he bring it up. He carried their two small satchels into their chamber, noting how her gaze also lingered on the bed.
Duncan then went downstairs as she bathed. Afterward, she adjourned to a sitting room beside a cheerful fire as he washed off the dust of the day.
With both of them clean and refreshed, they regrouped in the sitting room and walked together to the taproom.
The innkeeper approached them. “Sir, madam. A private room?”
“Yes, please,” she answered before Duncan could decline the innkeeper’s offer. At Duncan’s questioning look, she quietly explained, “It’s delightful meeting so many people and learning their stories, but I own that I’m rather tired of cheerful conversation.”
“So you’ll settle for my dour silence?” he teased.
“Spending time with you is notsettling,” she answered with remarkable vehemence. “And anyone who says otherwise will get a drubbing.”
He had no answer to that, so they walked quietly behind the innkeeper as they were shown to a private room toward the back of the building. The room itself had no door, but a heavy curtain hung in the frame, offering the diners inside some seclusion. There was a round table within, surrounded by four chairs, with heavy wooden paneling on the walls, a small, cozy fire, and a vase with purple flowers.
He and Beatrice were soon sharing a decanter of surprisingly decent wine and dining on roast hare with stewed mushrooms and roasted potatoes. A berry flummery had been provided for dessert.
In the glow of candles and firelight, with a fine meal in his belly and a striking woman sitting opposite him, a peculiar sensation crept through Duncan. His limbs felt loose, the muscles of his back and arms slackening, and there was a kind of lightness in his chest that he couldn’t quite understand.
“Seem fond of talking to strangers,” he noted. “Everyone who rode with you today in the mail coach found a new friend.”
“That’s it precisely.” She tilted her head as she studied the candle’s flame. “I was taught that genteel women kept their conversation with unfamiliar people to a minimum—especially if those people weren’t highborn. And when wedidconverse, it was to be with disinterested politeness. But that always seemed like rubbish to me.”
“How so?”
“It’s ridiculous to think that someone’s birth has anything to do with whether or not they’re a worthwhile person.” She made a very unladylike grunt. “I’ve met countless aristocrats who are absolute ninnies. And besides, their world is identical to mine. What can anyone possibly learn if they talk about the same things with the same people all the bloody time?”
“Thus, chatting up everyone in the mail coach.” Hegazed at the remaining wine in his glass. “Officers weren’t supposed to encourage fraternization between themselves and their men. Thinking on it now, I probably held similar opinions to yours. Didn’t do much lingering in the officers’ mess, but I also kept my visits to the men’s campfire relatively brief.”
