Forget Me Not (17 page)

Every last illusion of denial was over. He loved her.

Loved the way her cheeks never pinked but flamed when anything embarrassed or upset her. He loved the scores of useless trivia clamoring about her brain, and the way she said whatever came off the top of her head. She wasn’t perfect, far from it, but the little imperfections were what held him enraptured.

He didn’t just love her; he wanted to be with her…  Could it be the fear of being left alone, losing his soul mate was dwindling?

Hell and damnation, what will I do now?

Sleep.

Sleep was the answer to all of life’s problems when an answer was not forthcoming. Some of his greatest schemes and brainstorms had occurred in or immediately after a cleansing nap. Moreover he was entirely too sleep deprived to make sense of any thought or emotion now.

As luck would have it, the ancient road took them through a small town late in the afternoon. Brian steered Bess toward the first inn on the main street. He parked in front of the stable and hopped to the ground.

“Brian,” Lydia questioned with barely concealed panic. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping for a decent night’s rest, and a real meal.”  He gestured broadly to the inn sign. “Ye’re sharp little eyes haven’t spotted Roark again have they?””

She glared at him,
hard
, for a long moment as though to gauge whether or not he was teasing. He wasn’t.

“No. I don’t see anyone familiar. I just don’t think this is our wisest course of action. It rather seems you’re inviting bad luck.”

“I happen to be the unluckiest bastard on the face of the planet, ask anyone I served in the army with. I never go out of my way to tempt the fates. You may not realize, Lydia, that as a result of your incapacitation and the presence of our enemies I have not slept more than five minutes since the night we were rained into the cabin. I need a bed and a long sleep. That,” he added as an afterthought, “and I’m starving.”

She swatted away the proffered hand to assist her from the wagon, stubbornly climbing down herself. It made for a rather funny sight, what with her heavy skirts catching on a rusted nail as she descended, but did little to improve his dour mood. “That may be,” she hissed, “but surely
this
is not the best place to stop. There are reward posters bearing our likenesses everywhere!”

Urgently he grasped her arm and leaned close. “Keep yer voice down, lass. No one will think to look fer us waltzing into a tavern right beneath their noses. The posters are lookin’ for a kidnapped girl and Irish stable hand, not a married couple traveling with their son.”  Her gaze drifted to Brandon kicking at pebbles in the road. “Besides,” Brian took a step back, tugging playfully at her messy braid, “Ye hardly look like the prim and proper porcelain doll drawn onto that there poster.”

“Oh,” she huffed, cheeks reddening like perfect little cherries. “Aren’t you forgetting something else?”

“And what’s that, love?”

“We have no money.”

He lifted a finger. “Ah, ye do have a point there, Lydia.
We
do not have any money.
I
, however, do.”

Her jaw flopped open. “Where have you been hiding it?”

“A pouch in me boot.”  Nonchalantly he slapped his calf, and turned toward the inn door. “Raised as I was it didn’t take long to learn a very important lesson.”

“Said lesson being?”

“A man should never keep his valuables in one place or far from his immediate person.”

“Just so long as you didn’t steal it,” she grumbled, stomping after him. “Seeing as
we,
” she emphasized the word heavily as though to say
we’re in this together,
“are not so destitute as I’d originally believed. Brandon is having a bath after we eat.”

The boy’s head snapped around. “The hell I am!”

“Mind your language, young man, and yes, you are.”

Brian threw Brandon a conspiratorial wink. “I wouldn’t cross her if I were you, son, but maybe you could have a bit of dessert if ye promise to a good scrub.”

Brandon’s eyes turned to saucers with the promise of sweets. “S’pose a bath wouldn’t kill me, but I’d better eat dessert first, just in case.”

Even Lydia laughed as Brian led the way into the Inn.

Brian registered under the surname Reilly and the balding, paunchy man behind the desk never batted an eye. “Sir, would it be possible to have a meal sent to our rooms, and a bath prepared?”

“Certainly, Mister Reilly, just speak with Maggie.”  He motioned to the adjoining room. “You’ll find her in the tavern.”

“Thank you.”  He handed Lydia the key to their room. “Why don’t ye take Brandon up to the room, love. I’ll see about the food and hot water,”

She plucked the key from his fingers, a challenge evident in her eye. “Very well.”

Brian watched her sashay up the well-maintained if less than glamorous wooden stairs, and sighed out the weight of his frustrations. He was confused, damnably so, and seriously doubted any amount of food and sleep would cure what ailed him. What he needed was a woman. Of course the one woman he wanted was out of the question. If he succumbed to weakness, Sir William would kill him. Correction, Sir William would castrate, dismember and then kill him. He cocked his head to the side, assessing Lydia’s lithe form; the torture just might be worth it.

With concerted effort he dragged his eyes from the perfect curve of Lydia’s backside and wandered into the pub. The place was near deserted as it was long past the noonday meal and long before supper; it was just as well, less chance of being recognized. He quickly scanned the dimly lit room, eyes falling to a buxom barmaid wiping glasses behind the counter. “Afternoon, Miss. I was told to ask after Maggie for a meal and a bath?”

Pale eyes roamed the length of him, the woman’s red lips puckered suggestively as she slithered smoothly forward. “That’s right. I’m Maggie, and I can help you with food, a shave or,” her eyes dropped pointedly to his trousers, “anything else you might need.”

Uncomfortably Brian cleared his throat. After a good sleep, and hardy meal it may not be a bad idea to take Maggie up on her offer, distract himself from Lydia. Still, it did seem rather bad form to be posing as one woman’s husband and carrying on with another. “A meal for three, and a bath sent to me room will be all, Miss Maggie, thank you.”

She shrugged indifferently, the overly tight blond curls springing around her face. “Suit yourself. I’m here all night if you change your mind.”

“That is, uh, very good to know, miss.”  He finished ordering the food and hot water, and made his way to the room.

The chamber proved decent in size with two small beds, a moveable partition, and a table boasting two chairs. The room looked like heaven after the decrepit cabin, and straight backed chairs he’d been sleeping in.

“I’m still not certain this was a good idea, Brian.”  Lydia paced agitatedly about the room, glancing toward the door as though she expected the devil himself to explode through.

With a heavy sigh Brian scrubbed a hand through his hair and collapsed backward onto the bed. “It’ll be fine, lass. No one’s recognized us yet, and none will if we continue on as a married couple with their son.”

“Perhaps,” Lydia replied, a less than convincing ring to her tone.

“When is my desert coming?”  Brandon chimed from beside the window.

“Soon.”

A crisp rap on the door interrupted their conversation. Lydia, stalked toward the do
or, yanking the portal open. Br
i
a
n sat, more than ready to devour a hot meal, and glanced to the door. Internally he groaned. None other than Maggie stood on the other side, a tray laden with food propped expertly on one arm and shoulder. The harlot’s eyes narrowed on Lydia in equal
parts menace, challenge, and disappointment. The air sizzled between the women for a tense moment. Finally, Lydia stepped back from the door, and swept an arm toward the table, holding herself coolly aloof.

“Why, Mr. Reilly you didn’t mention a wife when we spoke a few minutes ago.”  Maggie set the food on the table, shooting him a blatantly suggestive look. The woman leaned over the table a second or two longer than necessary, providing him an ample show of her cleavage.

Lydia speared him with an icy glare.

Brian gulped. “Aye, Miss Maggie, this here is Lydia Don—er—Reilly.” 
Damn! 
He’d nearly compromised their disguise. “Lydia Reilly, me wife. And this is our son, Brandon.”  He reached out to ruffle Brandon’s hair. The lad promptly swatted his hand away.

“I see.”  Maggie flounced back to the door, pausing to flash an openly flirtatious smile. “I’ll be in the pub should you need anything else.”

Br
i
a
n cringed away from the heat of her gaze, rising to shoo her out the door. The tension emanating from Lydia’s rigid form was thick enough to cut with a knife. What had he been thinking earlier to consider Maggie as an alternative to Lydia?  To compare the women was battered tin to fine silver.

“I’ll be in the pub should you need anything else.”  Lydia mimicked sarcastically, perching delicately on a wooden chair, her posture prim and perfectly poised—tin to silver indeed. “Could that woman have been any more obvious?”

Brian cleared his throat. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what yer referin’ to.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, mumbling something about men.

Brian ignored her, holding out a chair for Brandon. “Sit, lad.”  The boy complied, and Brian heaped two plates high, setting one in front of Brandon and taking the other to sit on the edge of the bed for himself.

None spoke during the meal, each partaking heartily of fresh hot bread, meat and soup. Lydia remained coolly distant, nary speaking a word. Just as well; the equivalent of battered tin
was all he ranked in life. Brandon devoured two servings of apple cobbler, Brian could not resist overindulging him just a little, and Brian enjoyed a tipple of whiskey to aide nodding off to sleep.

Stuffed to the gills, Brian stood, eyeballing one of the small beds lining the east wall of the room. “If the two of you will excuse me, I’m goin’ to sleep for a spell. And, Brandon, remember what I said about that bath.”  Too tired to think straight he collapsed fully clothed face down on the quilted mattress and succumbed to the blissful respite of slumber.

*
             
*
             
*

Several hours later Lydia sat listening to Brandon’s light snoring, and the steadier rush of Brian’s breath. The sounds were infinitely comforting, like home, and, tired as she was, she had no desire to find her own place to retire. Granted, sleep was not an option until she found some way to manage the tangled mass of her hair. In the rush to leave Henry Wallace’s house that morning there had been no opportunity to comb her hair. She now feared the sloppy braid had permanently set knots into her hair. All she could think of was the rat’s nest in Violet Parker’s hair a few years back. The matted strands had proven too much for even the best detangling remedies and most expensive oils, her entire head of curls had been sheared off mere weeks before her debut season. Pity, the girl may have snared a title otherwise. Lydia shook her head,
snare a title
indeed, she sounded as shallow and petty as her parents. Titles meant nothing. Most of the titled gentlemen of her acquaintance were not half the man Brian proved himself to be.

She rose from the wooden chair beside Brandon’s bed and padded as lightly as possible across the room to fish the comb from Brian’s satchel. The bed creaked softly, and she turned to see Brian rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Oh, you’re awake.”  Her heart did a silly flip. “I’d thought you out for the night. Are you feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.”  He sat, gaze roving over her, a smile tugging the corners of his full mouth. “Come here, love, sit, I’ll help ye comb through that tangled mane.”

She flushed, lifting a hand to the messy braid.

He swung to the edge of the bed, motioning her to sit in front of him. She complied, perching on the edge of the bed between his knees. The heat of his body leeched through her clothes, and when his hands wrapped around the wild rope of her hair she flinched.

“Easy,” he murmured, working the three separate pieces of her braid apart. He pulled his fingers through her hair, loosening what he could before lifting the comb and gently plucking at the strands from the bottom up. It was slow going, but she no longer feared losing the full length of her hair. More slowly she began to relax into him.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Don’t you always?”

“It’s not polite to answer a question with a question, Brian,” she teased.

He tugged playfully at a combed section of her hair. “Perhaps it is not polite to ask so many questions.”

She ignored the quip, instead enjoying the ease of their banter. “How did you get started training horses, Brian?” Unwittingly she leaned into his hands, relishing the gentle feathering motions. “My father is extremely particular about who handles his animals.”

“Ye’re right about that.”  He laughed softly. “I could tell ye a story or two about yer father ripping into a few army handlers.”  His voice was a smooth caress washing
cascading
over her senses. “Your viscount sent over a few horses for me to work with as well.”