Page 30 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“I can see it was.” He poked at the corner of his mouth and watched as her color rose and she dabbed at herself.
He squashed the urge to smile and pulled out a chair. “Johnny did say there was a third cup here and I see there’s a third plate also. May I eat while we talk?”
“Of course.” She seated herself.
The maid, who had moved off to the side, bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll just go and check on our things.”
“No.” Bink waved her to a settee near the fireplace. “Please sit, Mabel.”
“Yes, Mabel. Do not leave us. You may count on her discretion, Mr. Gibson.”
He’d already seen that the maid and the lady were thick as thieves. She’d been Miss Heardwyn’s nursemaid, Bakeley had said.
So far, Bink had heard no whispering among the staff about Shaldon’s plans for a wedding, and he didn’t wish to. Still he’d prefer that kind of gossip to rumors he’d compromised the lady in the inn’s private dining room. That rumor would certainly result in the wedding neither one of them wanted.
But he would certainly enjoy the compromising. The thought brought forth an image he quickly pushed down.
Miss Heardwyn’s cheeks still glowed, as though she’d poked around in his brain. She was not completely uninterested, he’d wager—another speculation that sent heat sizzling in him.
Stand down, Gibson. All the talk of a marriage was working on the both of them. Well, on him anyway. He hadn’t had a woman in, he didn’t know how long. The squalor of London and the misbegotten children Lady Hackwell tended had turned him off the professionals. And though he’d had plenty of come-hither looks, he’d avoided entanglements with local widows. It seemed best, as the lord of the manor’s steward, to be prudent, or else for the price of a tumble he’d find himself leg-shackled.
And it was best to be prudent dealing with this sort of woman also. He loaded up his plate with cold meats and vegetables and a thick slice of bread. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“Where are you taking us?”
“For tonight, I’ve arranged rooms here.”
Miss Heardwyn squinted and pressed her lips together.
A tap at the door brought the innkeeper’s smiling, buxom maid with a flagon of ale and a pint tankard. Bink thanked her for the drink, and silently, for the interruption, and started speaking before the door shut on the wench, before the lady across from him could stop glaring at her and untie her tongue.
“I know we haven’t gone far, Miss Heardwyn, but it is, if you will remember, the Sabbath, and in spite of it, we’ve all had a hard day’s labor. The servants are entitled to a rest. Kincaid and the men will watch over your wagon. Nothing will go missing.”
She studied her teacup and worried at her lush lower lip with those perfect white teeth. She was a beauty, was Miss Heardwyn, much more to his taste than the flaxen-haired serving wench, and in other circumstances…
“As to the cost.” She cleared her throat.
“You are not to worry, miss. I’ve said you will have any monies Shaldon has left me, and I mean it. I will bear the cost tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make the arrangements with Bakeley for the rest.”
Her gaze shot up, eyes flashing. She did not want to be in his debt.
Or… she did not want to return to Cransdall.
She stood and walked to the fireplace. The room had gone warm, and he debated opening one of the casement windows a tad wider.
“Mabel, wait outside please,” the lady said, her back to the both of them.
Bink eased out of his chair. “Leave the door open, Mabel. You may stand outside and eavesdrop but don’t allow anyone else to listen.”
The maid’s lips quivered as she curtsied and hurried out.
He turned back to the lady. “Is this where you tell me you will not return to Cransdall?”
Paulette’s breath caught. Mr. Gibson had moved up next to her with a great deal of stealth, close enough to lay hands on her if he wished.
His big body radiated warmth and suffused her with his scent. Even after a hard day of riding, the man-scent was subtle, no stronger than her farmer’s had been on a Sunday morning, dressed in his best. But the yeoman farmer had repelled her. There was nothing repellant about Mr. Gibson.
She reached for some calm, trying to still her heart. She was shorter than most women, true, but even if she’d been tall for a woman, he would still tower over her. He spread one enormous hand against the mantel and leaned into it, sending her heart fluttering into her throat.
