Page 103 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
His brother wouldn’t, he was quite sure. But he wasn’t sure his brother was the man in charge.
Paulette’s mount stumbled and he heard her stifled gasp. Johnny had Ewan, Mabel was stubborn, and Jenny resourceful. He must trust them to fate and put his attention on his own lady and the way ahead.
Paulette stretchedher legs and rested her back against the gnarled bark of a huge oak tree. The branches above offered some protection from a drizzly rain that colored the afternoon grey and kept her miserably damp. A thorough soaking might have been preferable.
Bink handed her a flask. “Have a swig. How’s the backside?”
It ached like the devil, now the numbness had waned, but she refused to whine.
“The polite term isderriere. And it is excellent.” She lifted the flask to her lips.
“Indeed it is.”
Choking, she looked up into his grin.
“Perhaps I should massage it for you anyway.”
Heat curled through her, and an answering smile threatened. “You cannot be rubbing your servant boy’s bottom in the bushes off a public byway.” She handed him the flask and gripped his arm to haul herself up. “Should we not be going?”
He looped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her. “There’s no one about.”
The journey had gone well so far. She’d proved herself a good enough horsewoman, or else his choice of horse had been inspired. In any case, she doubted her backside was much sorer than his must be.
If Bakeley’s men were in pursuit, they surely were miles behind.
The rattle of wheels loosed Bink’s arm. He nudged her back further into the brush where the horses rested.
A cart went by, a dark woman clad all in black driving a spry little horse—quite different than the farmers and drovers they’d met more than once. In the box, a man lolled, only the back of his hat visible.
Her skin prickled, her nerves jigging like the barroom full of boys in their cups at the inn where they’d stopped for food late the last night.
She couldn’t say why. They were not far from London, in a country area of gabled cottages and produce farms. The woman was traveling towards the way they’d just come, so she wouldn’t be Bakeley’s.
And surely Agruen would not have a woman in his employ.
Agruen hated women.
She reached for Bink’s hand, smoothing her thumb across the calloused knuckle. He should be wearing his gloves.
His big fingers wrapped around hers. “I’ll get you there safely.”
The weight of worry had grown worse, Agruen’s men, and now Bakeley’s, would be following them.
Bink always seemed to sense what she was feeling, and always managed to lift the trouble, to keep it hoisted so it didn’t crush her. He’d done that from the start, first with Agruen, then with Cummings, and now—now who was she running from, truly?
She shook off her nerves and leaned into him. In fact, her husband’s knack for knowing her had begun earlier, with Bakeley’s announcement of their inducement to marriage. And the thought of how that situation had changed made her smile.
“Up with you then.” He helped her into the saddle, and she bent and dropped a quick kiss under his hat brim, hitting his ear.
He flattened his palm along her thigh, a great slab of warmth moving higher. Steam should be rising from her damp trousers, as it was in her eyes. She sniffed.
His hand stopped. “What’s this?”
She let out a slow breath, taming the quiver inside her.
She’d found love. She loved Bink. Bink, the tough bastard, Bink, the kind gentleman. Both men. She loved them both.
She cleared her throat. “A great drop plopped on me from the branch up there.” She pointed at the offending limb. “Hit me square in the eye.”
