Survivors' Club: The Escape Part 11

"If we are going to quarrel all the way to Wales," he added, "it should be an interesting journey. Especially as we are still no more than a mile or two from Robland."

"Perhaps," she said, "if we do not converse, we will not quarrel."

And she turned her head away and half turned her body too so that she was looking out at the pa.s.sing scenery. From his silence, she supposed he was doing the same through the window on his side.

Perhaps half an hour pa.s.sed, though it felt more like an hour. Or three. It became more and more difficult to maintain her posture, to keep her chin from falling, to keep her eyes from closing. She envied Tramp, sprawled out and fast asleep and even snoring on his seat. And then, in a moment of lapsed concentration, she yawned hugely and audibly and felt instantly embarra.s.sed.

"I suppose," he said, "you did not get a wink of sleep last night."

"Perhaps a wink," she said. "Maybe two. I had a great deal on my mind, Sir Benedict. It is not every day one sets off on a grand, life-changing adventure. Not if one is a woman, anyway."

"And not every man goes sneaking off every day with someone else's widow," he said dryly, "with nary a word to his family and friends. Why do you not take off your bonnet and set your head back against the cus.h.i.+ons? And your back too. When I got into the carriage earlier, you looked so prim and starchy that I thought for a moment you had sent your sister-in-law in your place. The horses are still fresh and will carry us a fair distance before it becomes necessary for them to be changed. Your dog has not lost any time in catching up on his beauty sleep."

"Just do not utter any word that begins with w," she said, "especially with the letters a-l-k attached. You would soon discover how deeply asleep he is."

She took his advice-she seemed to have no choice in the matter since it was becoming increasingly difficult to remain awake. She pulled loose the bow of ribbon beneath her chin and removed her bonnet to hold on her lap. She leaned back with an inward sigh of relief. She would close her eyes for a few minutes.

She was more aware of him when she did so. She could feel his body heat down one side, though they were not touching. She could smell something that was distinctively masculine-leather, shaving soap, whatever. It was hard to distinguish individual smells, but they all added up to something rather enticing and altogether forbidden. He had kissed her once. There had even been tongue play, and it had been very pleasant indeed. A bit of an understatement that, though-very pleasant indeed. She wondered if he remembered. It had been almost a month ago. She doubted he had forgotten, though, for he had gone as long as she before that without kisses or anything else.

And she ought not to be thinking of such things now. Especially about the anything else.

She took refuge in other mental ramblings. Perhaps she ought to have left behind some sort of note for her father-in-law rather than slinking away like a naughty child who expected to be pursued. Would she be followed? But no one would know where she was going or how she was traveling. Perhaps she ought to have written to John, just to tell him she was quite safe and would write at greater length later. Though why she would do so, she did not know. John never wrote to her. He probably would not care if she went to the North Pole to live. Perhaps she ought to have left a note for Mrs. Andrews to explain why she must withdraw so soon from her committees and would be unable to do any more sick visiting. Perhaps ...

She lost her battle with sleep at that point. Her thoughts floated away, and her head gradually slipped sideways until it rested against a warm, solid shoulder. She was vaguely aware of it, even of whose it was. She was even aware that it was not quite right to keep her head there, but she was too sleepy to act on the thought. It was a firm yet comfortable shoulder. She burrowed her head a little farther back to wedge it more securely between shoulder and cus.h.i.+on and slid the rest of the way into sleep.

Ben sat very still and wondered if they would succeed in getting all the way to her new home without becoming lovers. He had wondered the same thing since yesterday afternoon. He had wondered it last night while trying to sleep.

... if we are only attracted to each other, then we should go to bed and have our fill of pleasure with each other.

She had actually spoken those words. After he had made her that asinine offer of marriage and before she had remembered that she owned a cottage-how could one forget that one owned a house?

He did not want them to become lovers. Well, he did. Of course he did. If he could shed all his clothes at this moment and plunge into a frigid lake, it would not surprise him at all if the water turned to steam. Good G.o.d, it had been longer than six years, and she was both beautiful and voluptuous and tantalizingly available.

But he did not want them to be lovers. For one thing, he was accompanying her in order to protect her from harm, not in order to debauch her himself. For another, he was a bit afraid of being anyone's lover. He did not want any woman to see him as he was, to witness the difficulties he would doubtless have-though in the last month, since that kiss had opened the floodgates of his restored s.e.xuality, he had wondered if it would be possible to remain celibate for the rest of his life. But he did not want her to see him. She was physically perfect while he ... Well, while he was not. And for yet another thing, she was a recent widow and it would not be right to begin an affair with her so soon.

But here she was, warm and relaxed with sleep, her head burrowed between his shoulder and the seat cus.h.i.+on, one of her arms through his, her ungloved hand resting on his upper thigh, fingers spread. Her little finger was a hair's breadth away from his groin. It really felt as though someone had pumped air from the tropics into the carriage. And it was all unconscious on her part.

He tried to think of other things and remembered suddenly that he had been planning to leave for London this morning. He would not be at Hugo's wedding after all. He had not even replied to the invitation. He felt a wave of regret bordering on loneliness, imagining his six friends all gathering in London for the festivities. They would miss him, but they would think he was still in the north of England with Beatrice.

Mrs. McKay smelled of something sweet and elusive. Gardenia? Actually, he was no expert on female scents, but this one must have been specifically designed to tease the senses of celibates.

He looked downward, past her shapely hand. His legs, encased in pantaloons and Hessian boots, looked almost normal. But when they stopped for a change of horses, as they must do soon, it would be evident that they were not normal at all. He would descend to the cobbles of the inn yard, taking many times longer about it than any normal man would, and then he would turn to hand Mrs. McKay down, all stiff pain and gallantry when, left to herself, she could have been down without his a.s.sistance and already seated in the coffee room. He would not even be able to offer his arm to lead her into the inn. He would need both for his canes and his twisted legs. She would no doubt reduce her pace in order to make him less conscious of his slowness.

Who was accompanying whom on this journey?

It was reality, though, and would never be any different. He had pledged himself to accept that, had he not? So, he was half crippled. His legs were only just better than useless. His legs were not him, however. His life did not lose worth just because he could not move as he had used to move-and as almost every other man on earth did. How long would it be until he fully accepted that?

He glanced across to the other seat, where the ugly hound sprawled in ungainly slumber. She loved the dog, ugliness and ungainliness notwithstanding.

He laughed softly to himself.

How the devil had he got himself into this coil? He wondered what his fellow Survivors would say when he recounted this adventure-or misadventure-to them next spring.

They would not stop teasing him for a decade.

Traveling was one of the most difficult activities for Ben, a fact that underscored the irony of what he had decided to do with his life until something more meaningful suggested itself. Except that he knew his body well enough to understand how much he could demand of it. Normally he would travel in short stages, taking twice as long to get where he was going than anyone else would. And if he was traveling purely for pleasure, as he would soon be doing, he would take frequent days off.

This was different, however. Although he did not expect any pursuit, he still felt it wise to put as much distance between them and Bramble Hall as they could in the first day or two. One never knew when one would come up against someone who would know and recognize Mrs. McKay. Besides, it would be very much to his advantage to get this journey over with as soon as possible. He was not made of stone, after all.

By the end of the first day, he did not know quite how to sit still or how to keep a smile or at least a look of alert interest on his face as they conversed. And he did not know how he was going to descend from the carriage that final time. He did it, however, and even managed to stand at the reception desk of the inn his coachman had chosen long enough to pay for two bedchambers, one for himself, Major Sir Benedict Harper, and one for Mrs. McKay, the recent widow of his military friend. He also reserved accommodation for the two servants as well as kennel room for the dog.

He supposed the explanation had not been necessary, since it could not matter to the landlord what the relations.h.i.+p was between the two people staying at his inn. Ben escorted a black-veiled Samantha to her room, made arrangements to join her later in the private dining room he had reserved, and collapsed on the bed in his own room before throwing one arm over his eyes.

He had long experience at enduring pain. He rarely took any medicine to dull it, and he rarely allowed it to slow him down or confine him to his bed. It was a fact of his life and always would be. All he could do to control it was avoid the sort of activities-like long days seated in a carriage-that would intensify it.

Quinn came within five minutes and silently pulled off his boots and set to work ma.s.saging stiff muscles and working out clenched knots until he could relax more.

"Does she know about this?" he asked.

"Good Lord, no," Ben said. "Why should she?"

They had talked determinedly through much of the day. And actually it had not been too difficult after a while. He had noticed that with her before. She was easy to talk to. She would always answer his questions and then ask her own in return. She neither monopolized the conversation nor expected him to do all the talking. They had exchanged memories of childhood. She remembered dancing barefoot in the gra.s.s with her mother and splas.h.i.+ng and swimming in a stream with some other children from the village. He remembered swimming in the lake at Kenelston and climbing trees with the gamekeeper's two boys and engaging in sword fights with them, using the wooden toy weapons their father had carved for them all-Ben included.

They had even sat in companionable silence some of the time, watching the scenery go by on their respective sides of the carriage, alone with their own thoughts.

"You might suggest slowing the journey down," Quinn said. "Anyone would think from your speed that she was an underage maiden heiress and you a penniless n.o.body abducting her to Gretna Green."

"And so muddleheaded that I am taking her in quite the wrong direction?"

"You will be crippled before you get to the wilds of beyond," Quinn said, jerking his head in a direction that Ben guessed was meant to indicate the southwest coast of Wales.

"I think not," Ben said. "Give me half an hour, Quinn, and then come back to help me dress for dinner."

His valet grunted and withdrew. He had been a groom in the Duke of Stanbrook's stables at Penderris when Ben first encountered him. In those early days of all-consuming agony, only that particular groom was able to move him and turn him for the necessary washes and changes and treatments without his quite pa.s.sing out from the pain. His Grace had pretended to grumble when Ben appropriated the groom to be his nurse and then his valet.

An hour later Ben descended to the private dining room, feeling considerably restored.

His first thought after opening the door was that he must have the wrong room. She was standing beside the table, which had been set for their meal, and she was wearing a high-waisted, short-sleeved evening dress of pale blue muslin. Her near-black hair was piled on her head in an intricately tied knot.

He stared at her, transfixed and aghast.

"What the devil?" he said, and he took an incautiously hasty step forward and shut the door firmly behind him.

She raised her eyebrows. "I left all my blacks at Bramble Hall, except what I wore today," she told him. "I will not wear those again. They were ordered from Leyland and sent to Bramble Hall without any consultation with me or any fitting with a proper modiste. They are ugly and impersonal and ill-fitting, and they in no way reflect the genuine sorrow I felt at the premature death of my husband. They are the mere ostentatious trappings of grief, designed to impress the world. I will not put on a meaningless show any longer. That part of my life is over, and the next part of my life has begun."

He took one step closer. "Have you forgotten," he said, "that we are traveling as a major and the recent widow of his military friend? Who has seen you dressed like that?"

"Like what?" she asked. "You make me sound as if I am dressed like a harlot."

"Like a young lady," he said between his teeth, "traveling with a gentleman who is not her husband. Who has seen you?"

Her cheeks had flushed. "The landlord showed me where the dining parlor was," she said. "There were a few other people. I did not take much notice."

"You can be sure the landlord took notice," he said. "Good Lord, and you do not even have a maid with you."

"If you wish to go away, Sir Benedict-" she began.

"Stop talking nonsense," he snapped at her. "From now on, starting tomorrow, we are going to have to be husband and wife. That is the only solution."

"How ridiculous," she said.

"You will be Lady Harper from tomorrow on," he told her. "Oh, do not worry for your virtue. We will take separate rooms at the inns where we stay. My injuries make me restless and so make it imperative that I sleep alone. Not that we will be called upon to explain ourselves."

"I think, Sir Benedict," she said, "you are a bit stuffy. As well as tyrannical."

"What I am," he told her, "is concerned for your reputation, ma'am. And that is going to have to be Benedict and Samantha tomorrow. We will be husband and wife."

"I suppose," she said, "you would be happier if I were shrouded in black for the rest of my life."

"You may wear scarlet every day until you are eighty," he said, "after you have been delivered safely to your cottage and I have gone on my way."

"Delivered," she said. "Like an unwanted package."

The door opened behind him, and a maidservant carried in a large tray with their evening meal.

"Come and sit down," Mrs. McKay said to Ben. "You are in pain."

Well, it was all the result of being brought up short inside the door by her appearance. He was still in a lot less pain, though, than he had been an hour ago.

He moved toward the table without comment.

"You were in pain most of the afternoon, were you not?" she said after they had taken their seats and the girl had withdrawn. "I did not say anything then. It seemed like an impertinent intrusion upon your privacy. But perhaps I ought to have. Are you always in pain?"

"I make no complaint, ma'am," he said. "You must not concern yourself."

She clucked her tongue. "Matthew always complained," she said, "and I sometimes wished he had exercised a little more restraint. You will never complain, I suspect, and I will probably find your heroic fort.i.tude just as irritating."

He laughed despite himself.

"Riding for hours in a carriage is not the most comfortable experience even for the most nimble," she said. "I suppose it is the worst thing in the world for you."

"Probably not the very worst," he said.

"You make me feel selfish and insensitive," she told him. "First my appearance and now this. We will not travel so far tomorrow or any other day after that. If we take two weeks, even three, to complete this journey, then so be it. We are in no particular hurry, are we?"

She might not be.

"I will not have you put yourself out for me," he said. "I have grown accustomed to my condition. No one else need be burdened with it."

She had taken his plate and was dis.h.i.+ng out his food for him just as if she really were his wife and they were seated cozily at their own dining table.

"We will travel in a more leisurely fas.h.i.+on, beginning tomorrow," she told him. "Perhaps we are on our honeymoon. Do you suppose we are?"

Her sudden smile looked impish. He could have wished, though, that she had found some other subject to joke upon. Their honeymoon, indeed! Drat and blast it all.

"You told me earlier today, Mrs. McKay," he said, "that you were thankful I was not your husband. I replied in kind. I repeat that sentiment now. I have the feeling you would be one devil of a handful."

"A devil of a handful." She put down her knife and fork, set an elbow on the table, and rested her chin on her fist. "Indeed, Sir Benedict? How?"

Her voice had lowered to a throaty whisper, but her lips were curved up at the corners, and her eyes were dancing with mischief.

"Eat your dinner," he told her. He was feeling overheated again and there was not even a fire in the hearth.

12.

After that first day they traveled onward as man and wife. It was better that way, Samantha decided, for she could wear her own clothes again and forget about the ghastly oppression of her blacks. She had nothing particularly new and nothing very fas.h.i.+onable, but they were clothes she had chosen herself and, in a few cases, clothes she had made herself, and they suited her well enough. Wearing them again made her feel younger and more hopeful. They made her feel herself again.

She called him Ben. She had remarked-after one of their brief flare-ups-that Benedict made him sound like some sort of monk or saint and that no one had ever been more inappropriately named. Surprisingly, he had agreed with her and confided that he had always been uncomfortable with his name and far preferred the shortened form. She had told him that if he ever called her Sam she would have a temper tantrum. He had immediately called her Sammy and waggled his eyebrows at her. She had poked out her tongue and crossed her eyes in retaliation.

It actually felt good to act childishly. They had both ended up laughing.

After four days of travel, they crossed the River Wye into Wales. The land of her maternal forefathers. She had never expected that half of her heritage to mean anything to her and was surprised at the welling of emotion she felt at knowing that she was here at last.

She knew nothing about her mother's kin, except for her dead great-aunt, who had been Miss Dilys Bevan, p.r.o.nounced Dill-iss, according to her mother. She had always a.s.sumed there were no other living relatives.

But perhaps there were.

Did she want there to be? But she knew the answer was no almost before her mind had asked the question. For if any were still living, then they had neglected her mother and therefore her. And that would be worse than if they did not exist.

But suddenly, going to her cottage to live took on new meaning. For perhaps there was more awaiting her than just a dilapidated hovel of a building. Perhaps there was a whole story. A whole Pandora's box, which she did not want to open. She must just hope it did not even exist.

She was feeling a little maudlin on the day they pa.s.sed Tintern Abbey. They stopped to view the ruin, both of them having read and admired William Wordsworth's lengthy poem about it. The building and its unspoiled, deeply rural surroundings were every bit as lovely and romantic as they were depicted in that poem. Wooded hills rose on either side of the valley and the Wye flowed between, the abbey on its western bank.

Their days had settled into a certain routine. Samantha rose early each morning to take Tramp out for a walk before breakfast, and then they traveled until the horses were tired and must be changed or at least rested. They spent what remained of the afternoons either strolling in the vicinity of the inn where they had stopped or finding some local landmark of interest to explore. They would find somewhere comfortable to take their tea. Then Ben would write conscientiously in his journal, having called for pen and ink, while Samantha took Tramp for another walk. Then they would relax in their separate rooms until it was time to meet again for their evening meal. They retired early in antic.i.p.ation of the next day's exertions.

On this particular day they resumed their journey after visiting Tintern, in order to take rooms at an inn above the valley that had been recommended to them the night before. When they arrived there, though, it was to the disturbing discovery that there was only one room still available. It was a large and comfortable chamber, the landlord a.s.sured them when he saw Ben's hesitation, and there was a lovely view down into the valley and across it from its bay window.

"We will travel farther," Ben said. "My disability makes it difficult for my wife to share a room with me in any comfort."

But the closest inn, the landlord informed them, was at Chepstow, an uncomfortably long distance ahead when they had already traveled farther than usual today.