Page 61 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Paulette felt the emptiness of her stomach, but no hunger, and she had barely touched food all day. They’d been traveling since dawn, sustained by the cold meats and cheeses packed by Greencastle’s cook. She had no idea what the men had eaten. Even their few privy stops had been quick.
She wondered if Mr. Gibson was too excited to eat also.
A smattering of cottages passed in their side view.
“Where are we now, Polly?”
She pressed her nose to the window’s wavy glass. The twilight was thickening. “I don’t know. I hope we’ve reached Scotch Corner.” Mr. Gibson had explained the route at breakfast. At Scotch Corner, they would turn off the Great Northern Road and use the summer route, from Barnard Castle, following the River Tees through Alston and Brampton and Carlisle. They were all just names on a map to her, except for their destination, Gretna Green.
If they made good time, he’d promised to stop for a meal at Scotch Corner before they pushed on, like they were in one of Wellington’s campaigns, running toward battle.
Her stomach was so rattled, she wouldn’t be able to eat, but at least she would see him and talk to him.
The thought sent a shiver through her.
Minutes later, they’d stopped in front of an inn. The coach swayed as the men on top climbed down, but the usual quick bustle of horses being changed was absent.
“Praise be to God,” Mabel exclaimed. “We’re stopping for dinner.”
Moments later, Johnny reached a hand to help Paulette down. She looked around, unable to spot Mr. Gibson. While Mr. Kincaid spoke with an ostler, Ewan unstrapped their travel bags and handed them down to an inn servant.
They were spending the night. Relief and the need to stretch out in a proper bed…
Her breath caught. Perhaps she wouldn’t be all alone in her bed. Perhaps Mr. Gibson would want to be with her tonight. The thought sent all of her nerves dancing and heat rushing through her center.
And worry crept in. A stopover hadn’t been part of the plan. What if he’d changed his mind?
“Where—” She bit back the question—Where is Mr. Gibson?She was always looking for him, always a step behind. She needed to let him ask after her.
Anyway, she didn’t need to ask where he’d expect her to be. This inn surely had a private dining room. She lifted her chin and marched across the yard.
The meal was a good one, and Bink plowed through it. After a full day on horseback with sparse food he was glad to have one appetite satisfied.
“Fetch two brandies,” he told the serving wench. “Will you not eat, love?” he asked Paulette. She hadn’t touched a bite.
She turned a scowl on the maid’s back and when the door closed, scooted her chair closer.
His pulse thrummed. If he crooked one of his fingers could he move her into his lap? In another twenty-four hours, she’d be his to do as he pleased with, and by God, he wanted her right now.
Her hand touched the back of his collar, a tremble traveling from the point of contact up her arm and all the way down to his cock. Either she’d had more experience in that tiny village than anyone knew, or she was one of those women with a natural sensuality.
Didn’t matter. He was taking her, and the sooner the better. The thought tightened his trousers and made him ache.
She stood and leaned over the table to reach the flagon, her breasts straining against her gown. His to bed.
And his to protect, and from what—besides the usual louts—he still hadn’t been able to discover. He’d questioned Kincaid, to no avail.
He tugged at his neck cloth. He should have stayed at Greencastle and posted banns, and to hell with Scottish divorces. He’d meant what he said about that marriage loophole. What was his, would be his. His own lust to take her honorably—and quickly—had made him agree to this hair-brained scheme.
On the road, they’d passed groups of men from the north, traveling afoot to join the worker’s rally scheduled to take place in Manchester.
In his best burr, with his pistol tucked into his belt, he’d defused the tension, and tension there was aplenty. The loss of a livelihood and hunger drove men and women to do fearsome things. Hadn’t the French demonstrated that?
The next day’s route should be less traveled, but if a fight came their way, either through travellers or Paulette’s mysterious threat, he needed a rest, as did the other men.
Paulette spoke, but he barely heard her words.
“What did you say, love?”
