Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (3 page)

The captain’s smile never dimmed. “I can find someone to escort you back, if you’d like.”

Blythe stepped forward. “Actually, I offered to return her to her chaperone. Isn’t that right,
Lady
Chesterman?”

“Yes, you have,
Lord
Blythe. However, it seems you have a prior commitment.” She turned to the captain. “If it’s not too much trouble to find someone to escort me, Captain, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Certainly, my lady.” He turned to Blythe. “If you’ll excuse me a moment while I find my
bosun.
”

Claire opened her mouth to tell the captain that she would gladly follow him in search of the bosun, but he bowed and walked away, leaving her alone with Blythe and his cool expression.

“Lady Chesterman,” he said thoughtfully.

She fiddled with the laced edge of her shawl.

“Sebastian Addison’s sister?”

“Yes.”
Drat, drat, drat!

“I believe you and I met a long time ago.”

“Did we? I don’t recall.” Oh, the lies were just pouring out of her this night and it didn’t seem to be of any concern to her wayward mouth that she was getting caught up in them.

“It was many years ago.”

“Much can happen in the intervening years, my lord.”

He settled his hip against the railing and crossed his arms, still staring at her in that thoughtful way that made her want to escape while the cool breeze ruffled all of that dark hair. “Sebastian is a good friend of mine. I spent a school holiday at your estate with your brother. It was a while ago. In fact, I last spoke to Sebastian a few days ago.”

Her mouth suddenly went dry. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“Here we are, my lady.” The captain returned with an older, stooped man in his wake.

Blythe slowly straightened from the railing, never taking his eyes off her.

Claire tipped her head toward the captain. “My thanks, Captain.” She glanced at Blythe. “Lord Blythe.”

His lips twitched. What was going on in that mind of his? Just her luck that she caught him in a sober moment. She could only hope that when they docked in the morning, their paths wouldn’t cross and she could find a maid to accompany her to Paris.

And that Blythe would be traveling in the opposite direction.

The next morning Claire stood beside her luggage piled on the dock of Calais.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, quelling the butterflies in her stomach. She made it. She was actually standing on French soil.

People scurried about her, speaking in rapid French that she found wasn’t so difficult to follow. But most of all she reveled in the feeling of independence, something she’d only dreamt about just last year.

The ship had docked an entire day late, so the sun was just about to set. Claire had heard enough horror stories from her brothers to know she needed to find an inn before darkness fell and the drunkards and thieves showed themselves.

“Okay, then,” she muttered. “Find the inn.”

Except she wasn’t positive on exactly how she was to get her luggage from here to the inn. And she didn’t quite remember the name of the inn.
Hell and damnation.
She should never have given her small bag to that sailor, or, rather, thief. It had all her information in it.

She heaved a sigh and brushed at the pleats in her skirt. Standing around wringing her hands wouldn’t procure her lodging. If she wanted an adventure, well, she had an adventure. Just like Sebastian’s voice in her head said.

She eyed her three trunks, which seemed awfully inadequate while she’d been preparing for her trip. At the time, Claire had been positive she hadn’t packed enough. Now that she was in charge of moving the pile from place to place she realized she should have been happy with one trunk.

A man appeared in front of her, shorter than her by at least a foot and with a gaping smile that was missing more than a few teeth, but with a simple look about his eyes. Tipping a dirty cap at her, he spoke in rapid French, most of which she understood. He wanted to help her with her luggage and she was more than happy to have his help.

“You may deliver them to …”

What was the name of the inn? Something to do with sailing. Or a sailor. Or maybe it was a nautical term? Captain’s …

The Admiral’s Inn. That was it. She gave the man the name, inordinately pleased when he bobbed his head and nodded vigorously. This traveling thing wasn’t so difficult, despite her brothers’ dire warnings.

A sense of purpose rose up in her accompanied by a sense of accomplishment that spread a smile across her face.

As she was reaching into her reticule to pay him, she recalled the other bag she naïvely put into the hands of a thief. Her eyes narrowed and she was about to tell him that he would get half her money now and half when the bags were delivered when a large hand, encased in soft leather, came down on hers.

The little Frenchman’s smile fell and he backed away. He plunked his cap back on his head and glared at the owner of that hand.

Claire quickly slid from beneath Lord Blythe’s shadow.

Blythe spoke to the Frenchman in such excellent, but rapid, French that she didn’t catch a word of what he said. Whatever it was, it had the man scurrying away with muttered curses. In
disbelief, she watched him disappear into the crowd, her stomach sinking that the blasted man beside her had taken control so easily.

She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “That was extremely rude.”

“You would never have seen him or your property again.”

“I wouldn’t have given him
all
the money up front. How naïve do you think I am?”
Please don’t answer that.

He raised his brows before looking around the bustle of people swarming the incoming ships. She couldn’t help but notice his attire. He was definitely not what one would term a fop, but neither was he out of fashion. His shirt was unruffled, which was odd since the more well-off the man, the more ruffles he wore. His black waistcoat was shorter than normal, a fashion Claire was seeing more and more of and the same could be said for his dark gray coat. The effect was that one’s eye was drawn to tight, dove gray breeches that hugged muscular thighs and calves—no padding of the calves here. She jerked her gaze away from his legs only to find it land on his crisp white cravat. Again unadorned with ruffles and tied simply.

“Where is your companion?”

Claire straightened her shoulders, glad for the interruption of her most unacceptable thoughts, but also irritated that he sounded exactly like Sebastian. Why did men feel the need to take control of her? And, more important, why did they simply dismiss anything she said to them?

“I am perfectly fine, Lord Blythe. No need to worry about me.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “You may concern yourself with your own luggage.”

His surprisingly clear-eyed glance landed on her, then moved away. He gestured to a man standing under the shadows of a storefront. Speaking in French, he instructed the man to collect her baggage. The tall, lean fellow looked askance at her three trunks, then shrugged and called for another to help him.

Before she knew it, her trunks were loaded onto a cart, right next to Blythe’s smaller valise. Not only did he dress simply, he packed simply. “Where are you staying?” he asked.

“Pardon?” She bit the corner of her lip, but immediately let it go when his dark brown gaze settled on that spot.

“Where are you staying?” he asked again, his glance lingering too long on her lips.

“Honestly, my lord, I am quite capable of getting myself there.”

“How would it look if I were to leave my good friend’s sister standing in the middle of the docks in a foreign country? I will see you to your lodgings.”

She’d heard the same steel in her brother’s voice to know there would be no arguing with Blythe. This was exactly what she wanted to avoid—this sense of responsibility he would assume when he realized who she was.

Resigned, she told him the name of the inn. With any luck he would be staying somewhere else, or even better, he’d leave Calais altogether and continue on his journey.

“A fine choice,” he said. “And the inn I’m staying at as well.”

Curse it!

“Now, where is your companion so we can be off?”

Claire wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. Of course he would be staying at the same inn and of course he would ask about her companion. Any decent lady would never travel alone. Except, of course, a lady who lost her companion.

“She still wasn’t feeling well so I sent her ahead to the inn.” She really was becoming quite the little liar. Sebastian would be appalled. On a brighter note, her sister-in-law, Emmaline, would be proud.

Nathan’s brows went down and those dark eyes contemplated her for the longest time. She resisted the urge to squirm under such a direct stare. Experience taught her that squirming would give her away.

“Would you like to walk to the inn?” he asked. “Or do you prefer we ride?”

She looked up the bustling street filled with carts and people, then at the wagon filled with not only her luggage but others’ as well. If she wanted to ride, she’d have to perch on top of the precarious pile. Unless he summoned a carriage, and she did not in any way want to be closed into a carriage with him. Her trepidation had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the London elite would swoon in mortification that she was consorting with the owner of a gambling hell. No, it went far deeper than that.

“I’ll walk,” she said in resignation and started off without waiting for him.

“My lady.”

She turned to find him standing in the same spot she left him.

He pointed to his left. “The inn is this way.”

“Oh. Of course.” She turned on her heel and marched in the direction he was pointing.

He kept pace beside her, taking the position closest to the street, close enough that the sleeve of his dark gray waistcoat brushed the sleeve of her russet-colored gown. She tried to move away but there wasn’t anywhere for her to go.

Claire craned her neck to look up at the tall buildings sitting close to the cobbled road. They blocked what was left of the sunlight, casting everything in cold shadows. The brisk wind blowing in from the ocean had her pulling her cloak tighter around her.

The towering specter of Lord Blythe blocked her excitement as much as the buildings did the sun.

“So what brings you to France?” he asked.

She stumbled, startled by the question. Immediately Blythe’s hand captured her elbow. Discomfited by his touch, she moved away. She certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. No one knew the truth, not even Sebastian and Nicholas. Not even Nicholas’s wife, Emmaline, who more than anyone would understand. Yet Claire couldn’t think fast enough to come up with an alternate answer because his overpowering presence was stealing her air.

He cocked his head, eyeing her with those delicious eyes that seemed to know her every thought. “Are you visiting friends in France?”

“No. Well, yes.”

“Yes, you’re visiting friends, or no, you’re not visiting friends?” His mouth quirked in a smile and Claire found herself staring at his well-formed lips before tearing her attention away.

“I am visiting friends.”
In Italy.
She wasn’t about to tell him she had no friends in France. Lord knew what he would do then. Probably offer to escort her to Italy. Oh, good Lord, wouldn’t
that
be disastrous.

She stopped beneath a wooden sign swaying in the wind that advertised the Admiral’s Inn.

“Here we are, my lord.”

“Lady Claire.” He snagged her arm to keep her from entering.

Claire froze. She stared at his hand on her arm, the large fingers circling her bicep and her thoughts scattered in a burst of panic.

Claire desperately tried to gather her scattered thoughts. She was on a busy street, in front of a busy inn. Dockworkers were unloading the ships and loading wagons. Vendors were conducting business not a few feet away, yet all she saw was Blythe’s hand on her arm. All she felt was the pinch of his fingers on her tender skin. All she heard was the breath rushing in and out of her in short pants as the panic settled in the pit of her stomach.

She looked up into Blythe’s brown eyes. Eyes not consumed with rage, but concern.

Suddenly a burst of anger shot through her. She’d had about enough of men telling her what to do, where to go, what to say. And she certainly had enough of men touching her. She wrenched her arm from his grip and poked a finger into his chest.

He stepped back, his eyes widening.

“Don’t
ever
touch me like that again,” she said softly. Power surged through her, hot and potent, and it felt
good.

She yanked open the door of the inn and stepped into the dim interior, blinking until her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The scent of meat pies hit her and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial in almost two days.

Blythe stepped in beside her and she tried her best to ignore him.

The inn wasn’t much different from any in England. A bar sat off to the right, tables to the left. Sailors mixed with gentry and shop owners taking a bit of tea. Serving girls hustled between the tables, carrying large tankards of ale and plates of food. Claire grew light-headed at the sight of the food.