Page 71 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“Yes.” His face was grim. He was a man fit for action, wanting to be outside, looking for danger. “And I intend to do even better. Try to rest, love.” He chucked her chin, his eyes glowing. “You will have no rest tonight.”
Her heart clanged wildly as the coach stopped. Mr. Gibson was out of the door before she could form the words to respond.
First they would marry, then they would settle into an inn.
Paulette smoothed her skirt. The desire for speed and efficiency, she could understand, yet it seemed a backward way of doing things. For one, she would like to rearrange her disheveled hair and straighten the wrinkles from this traveling gown. Or change into her spare one.
She had, however, agreed early on to the plan, before she understood what thirty hours in a coach would do to one’s appearance. She hoped there would be a bath before the wedding night.
Her fingers curled as a ribbon of anticipation unfurled in her. After his rest, Mr. Gibson had returned to his vigilance, spurring on everyone—ostlers, post boys, grooms—to hasten. Privy stops were hurried, refreshments rapid.
He could not control the roads though, which, having succumbed to recent rains, slowed them in places to a precarious walk. Thus, when they entered the village of Gretna Green, the summer sun was low on the western horizon.
Nerves buzzing, she removed her bonnet. “My hair is a fright, isn’t it?”
“You look lovely, miss,” Jenny said.
Mabel crossed and sat next to her. “Turn then and let me re-pin it.”
The blacksmith’s shop and a grand inn came into view, but they passed by without even slowing.
“Where is he taking us?”
“Be still, Polly. Mr. Kincaid knows just the place, Johnny said.”
Mr. Kincaid again. He had been the one to chase Spellen down the hill. Yet he hadn’t himself fallen.
He’d been Lord Shaldon’s servant until the very end, fit and able. And he’d not been valeting Mr. Gibson, that was a fact.
Drat, she should have been asking questions instead of kissing.
“There.” Mabel pinched Paulette’s cheeks. “You will do very well as a bride.”
The coach turned down a quiet lane and stopped in a graveled courtyard. This must be an inn, a smaller one, set back from the heart of the town.
They sat for interminable minutes, and finally, Paulette opened a window and shivered. They were far to the north, and though the sun was still high, a chill breeze was coming all the way from the Irish Sea.
Mr. Kincaid appeared at the door, his face swathed in its usual gravity. He extended his hand. “Miss, Mr. Gibson is inside making arrangements. If you please, I will escort you.”
She climbed out of the carriage, and he draped her in a long piece of woolen plaid.
“A tartan,” she cried.
“The wind off the firth brings a chill,” he said.
She studied the moss green cloth with its intersecting black and red lines.
“’Tis the Kincaid plaid. You would honor me by wearing this.”
The gentle tone compelled scrutiny. Kincaid was brown-haired and brown-eyed, and almost everything else about him was middling—his height only a bit above average compared to Mr. Gibson, his physique sturdy, his age somewhere about forty. He could pass through a crowd and never be noticed, as she’d not really taken time to notice him. Yet now, he seemed almostfamiliar.
A hint of humor touched the corner of his mouth and he offered his arm. “May I have the honor?”
She drew the plaid tighter around her. An unaccountable emotion gripped her throat and she couldn’t find words. Ducking her head, she took his arm.
“He’s a good man, Gibson is.” He whispered close to her ear. “He will protect you.”
Paulette nodded again, and then his words registered. “From what?”
