Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (26 page)

She stumbled but righted herself. Nathan looked over his shoulder, worry in his eyes. She smiled at him and hoped it was convincing.

“What about childbirth?” she said. “A man can’t do that better than a woman.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Who’s being ridiculous? You said women couldn’t do things as well as men and I just pointed out that there is one thing we women can do better.”

She didn’t really think Nathan believed everything he was saying but it made for a good debate and it passed the time. Although she fervently wished that they were in the warmth of the
hospice with a warm meal spread before them.

She pressed a hand to her protesting stomach and forced her gaze to stay on the ground. Her steps were becoming unsteady, her legs weak.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “What about sailing a ship? A woman couldn’t possibly sail a ship.”

“Why?”

Nathan held back a bough from a fir tree to let her pass. “Because it’s backbreaking work.”

“What about Lady Anne? She sailed a ship.”

“Lady Anne was fiction.”

“Was she?”

“I simply refuse to believe a woman with orange eyes attacked ships and ate men.”

Claire chuckled, too hungry for a full-out laugh. “Of course that part wasn’t true. But what if there was a woman who captained ships better than any man?”

Nathan shook his head and continued on.

Claire bit back a smile and concentrated on his wide shoulders. Lady Anne was not fiction. Lady Anne happened to be named Emmaline, who was married to her brother, but Claire wasn’t in a position to tell Nathan that.

He stopped suddenly. Claire had to grab a hold of his arm to keep herself from falling over.

“There it is.”

She looked up and drew in a breath, half thinking she was imagining things.

Rising above the trees was a building reminiscent of the grandest cathedrals of Europe. Made of rough stone and tall, narrow windows, it towered over the trees, and since it was at the very top of the mountains, she could only imagine what the view would be.

The dog broke through the tree line and bounded up to them, plopping down on his haunches, that huge tongue lolling out of its mouth. Nathan laughed and patted the dog’s head. “Good boy.”

They were met on the path by a monk who later introduced himself as Brother Dieter and the dog as Larz. Yes, the dog actually had a name and was owned by the St. Bernard monks.

“We breed them,” Brother Dieter said while they ate. “Years ago we discovered that they have an innate sense of smell. They can even smell people buried in an avalanche.”

Claire shuddered at the thought of being buried alive. Thank God that hadn’t happened to her and Nathan. She scooped another mouthful of soup into her mouth. She didn’t need Nathan’s amused glances to know that she was being very unladylike eating the way she was. But she didn’t care, she was hungry.

Nathan was also eating heartily of the richly cooked food, making appreciative noises. Luckily Dieter didn’t seem to notice. He ate less and talked more about the dogs and the mission of the hospice, which was to aid weary travelers and find those lost in the wilderness.

Meanwhile Larz lay at Dieter’s feet, snoring softly.

Finally full, Claire laid down her fork and sat back with a sigh.

Dieter sat back as well, his attention on her. “Mr. Blanton informed me that you are traveling to Venice after having married in London.”

Claire stilled. Nathan’s fork froze halfway to his mouth before he put it down and cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he said. “
Mrs.
Blanton and I thought to take in the sights of Venice for a few weeks before returning to London. Isn’t that right, dear?” He shot her a warning look.

Claire stared at him.
Mrs. Blanton?
Nathan and Dieter had talked quietly when they’d first arrived. Surely he hadn’t told the monk they were
married.
Yet how else was he to explain that they were alone?

“Uh. Yes. That’s right,
darling.
” She turned back to Dieter. “My husband’s health is delicate and the doctors felt the warmer climate of Italy might benefit him.”

Nathan cleared his throat again, but Claire kept her gaze on Dieter and leaned closer. “He doesn’t like to admit his weaknesses but the doctor believes our inability to …” She lowered her gaze. “Well, our inability to have children might be a consequence.”

“My lady, er, Claire.” Nathan put his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers in a firm grip. “I’m sure the good brother doesn’t want to hear about … such things.”

“Oh, dear.” She glanced furtively at Dieter, who was looking wide-eyed at Nathan. “I’m terribly sorry. Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

Nathan smiled at Dieter. “You’ll have to excuse my wife. She doesn’t get out in society much. Not after the incident at Lady Crawford’s ball.” Nathan shuddered. “Horrendous, really.”

Claire gritted her teeth and managed to smile. “You promised, dear, you wouldn’t mention that again.”

He patted her hand. “My apologies.”

“Yes. Well.” Dieter pushed away from the table. “I believe, Mr. Blanton, you said you would like to leave at first light. I believe we can accommodate that. We have a driver who is well acquainted with the pass and can easily take you into Italy.”

Nathan rose and helped Claire to stand, his hold on her bruising, informing her that he wasn’t about to forget her behavior during the meal. That was fine with her. After all, she was miffed that he’d told Dieter they were married without informing her first.

“Let’s get you two settled for the night. We have Compline in a few hours then vigils before sunrise. You are certainly welcome to attend but aren’t expected.” Dieter walked them through the corridors. Occasionally they would pass another monk who would nod at them. Larz padded beside them, his nails clicking on the stone floor.

“I apologize that you couldn’t room together. Our cells are small.”

“That’s quite all right,” Nathan said.

Claire met his gaze then looked away, trying to hide her disappointment. Disconcerted that she was disappointed. They weren’t married and certainly pretending to be married was a sin. Sleeping together in a hospice filled with monks had to be a double sin, if there was such a thing.

They stopped at a closed door with a cross carved into it. “Your room, Mrs. Blanton.”

Claire put her hand on the door handle and turned to look at Nathan, who was watching her with smoldering eyes and a slight smile. She suddenly found that she didn’t want to be alone the rest of the night. She wanted to sleep next to Nathan, to feel the heaviness of his arm draped around her, his even breathing, his warmth.

“Good night, gentlemen.” She opened the door and stepped through before second thoughts took root. She was alone for the first time since she’d been locked in the bedchamber at Marchant’s. And she found she didn’t like it one bit.

She was … lonely.

She would have laughed at that if she wasn’t so close to crying. For years she dreamt of
being alone, of not having to answer to her husband or her brothers, or anyone for that matter. The thought had been liberating, the idea invigorating.

And now that it was a reality, she was more sad than anything.

Really, Claire, you are the ninny, aren’t you?

She sat on the bed, clutching the edge as she looked around. A lone candle barely shed its meager light into the corners. The small bed took up most of the room, a table and chair the only other furniture. There wasn’t even a wardrobe to put clothes in.

She shivered in the cold and looked down at the thin mattress and even thinner blanket, wishing with all her heart she could snuggle into Nathan’s warmth.

Dropping her head into her hands, she heaved a sigh of monumental proportions. “Oh, Claire.” What happened to the independent woman she was to become on this journey? What happened to not needing anyone?

A lone tear dripped down her cheek and a shuddering sigh erupted from her. She didn’t
want
another man in her life. She didn’t
want
someone telling her what to do, where to be, what to say, how to act.

She wanted to live her own life without interference, and if Nathan Ferguson was one thing, he was an interference.

He was …

He was …

Kind.

Overbearing.

Considerate.

Entirely male.

Which in her world was not an admirable trait. Except Nathan Ferguson seemed to make it admirable. At times.

She jumped up and tried to pace but it took only five steps to get from one end of the room to the other and it did nothing to alleviate her frustration.

She plopped down on the bed again in defeat.

What was wrong with her? She should be happy that Lord Blythe was in another room. She should be happy that she finally had time to think her own thoughts. To simply be.

And yet all she could think about was Nathan and how she wanted to be with him.

Think about your adventure. Think about Gabrielle and your plans to find an Italian lover who won’t make demands on you. Who
you
can control.

But the thoughts wouldn’t come because
he
always intruded. And when she tried to concentrate on that Italian lover, her mind shied away.

She pounded the mattress and growled in frustration. Nathan Ferguson was
not
in her plans. Yet he’d so easily inveigled his way into them.

Ooooh, she despised him!

No, you don’t. Admit it. You’re in love with him.

She jumped up again as if she’d been pinched. “No, I don’t. I do
not
love him. I tolerate him because I have to. But that’s all.”
That’s all.

She looked longingly at the closed door. Complines had started. The comforting sound of the monks’ chanting floated through the air.

Claire opened the door and poked her head out. The dim hallway was empty, everyone at Compline except for her and Nathan. The door to her right was closed while all the others stood open.

Go to him.

She shut the door and backed up until her legs hit the bed and she plopped down on it. Her heart pounded heavily against her ribs and her hands began to sweat in the cold room.

“I’m not in love with him,” she said into the silent room. “I’m not.”

Her breathing came in short gasps and she pressed a fist against her chest to stop the panic from overwhelming her.

She pressed her fingers into her closed eyes, quelling the building tears. Tears never accomplished anything. Tears were a waste of time. She learned that early in her marriage.

Instead of crying, she took off her shoes and climbed beneath the blanket, shivering in the cold. Although she feared it wasn’t really the cold that bothered her, but rather her thoughts and her ridiculous belief that she was in love with Lord Blythe.

Of course it was ridiculous. He was a gambler, a drunkard, a rake. He kidnapped her and locked her in a room in a house of ill repute. He stole her money.

She rolled over and balled the blanket in her fists, but her eyes refused to close and the silence became deafening.

A scuffle of feet drifted to her from the hallway and her door creaked open. Claire rolled
over in time to see a very large, very familiar shadow scoot in before the door closed again.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sharing your bed.”

“You can’t do that.” The words were whispered frantically even as she was scooting over to give him room.

Suddenly he was there, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. His warmth overpowered any objections she had and she turned into him as his arm came around her.

“This is wrong,” she said.

“Don’t worry. Even I’m not so base as to ravish you in a hospice full of monks. I just want to sleep.”

Her head settled onto his shoulder.

She found his hand and squeezed it, suppressing a sigh of traitorous contentment. Yes, this was wrong for so many reasons, the least of which was that they were in a religious establishment, but it also felt so right.

“One hundred points. I win.” Claire fanned her cards out on the makeshift gaming table that was really the carriage seat between them, and smiled. They had left the hospice earlier that morning with Brother Dieter’s blessing, his coach and a driver from the hospice.

Nathan put his cards down with a scowl. “That, my lady, is called sinking, and sinking is frowned upon.”

“Ah, but you never said that. Therefore I reach one hundred points before you and I win.”

When Nathan first taught her the very simple rules of piquet, he’d not played to his full potential, allowing her to win a few hands. But to his surprise, Claire caught on quickly, not only to the few rules but to the strategy behind them. He found he actually had to concentrate to beat her. And now she won the game.

Hell and damnation.
How did that happen?

Claire nearly bounced in her seat. “Let’s play again.”

He was transfixed by her sunny smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes and the way her hair fell about her shoulders in unruly waves. She was so natural and so beautiful that at times it caught him off guard.