Griff plucked one of the gray lumps from the table. "You're playing for rocks?"
"Fossils," Colin corrected, snatching the lump from his hand. "Minerva collected hundreds this week. She can spare a few. These round ones? They're ammonites--worth a half-crown. Troglodytes are a shilling."
"I thought they were called trilobites," Rycliff said.
"Listen, Bram, whose lady is the geologist?" Colin retorted. "Do I try to tell you the names of herbs and such?"
Griff interrupted. "I can't sit down to cards tonight. I'm off to see about this Miss Browning who's speaking at the library. The roads are bad, and her coach has likely been delayed." He glanced at the table. "Also, my purse is light on rocks."
"You're going out in that?" Colin tilted his head at the rain-glazed window and made a face.
"Well, since Miss Browning is somewhere out in that . . ." Griff tilted his head in the same direction. "Yes."
"You shouldn't go alone," Bram said.
"No, you shouldn't," Colin agreed. "Take Thorne."
Thorne glowered at him. But then, Thorne glowered at most everyone.
Colin threw down his cards, pushed back from the table, and stood. "Joking, Thorne. We'll all go along."
"I don't want to ask that of you," Griff said.
"Of course you don't," Colin said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You hoped we'd volunteer. And so we have."
Griff scratched the back of his neck. It was true that four men could search faster than two. But Colin Sandhurst had a way of complicating even the simplest errands.
"We'll all go," Colin repeated, shrugging into his coat. "All the ladies are looking forward to the lecture--which means they'll be grateful to whoever saves it. Now and again, I reckon we could all use an opportunity to endear ourselves to our wives." He looked to Rycliff and Thorne. "When's the last time you did something heroic for your lady?"
Rycliff smirked. "Last night."
Thorne drained his tankard and cracked his neck. "This morning."
"I didn't mean in bed," Colin said. Under his breath, he added, "Braggarts."
Griff shared the sense of irritation. Before this afternoon, he hadn't spoken--or lain--with his wife in three weeks. He was feeling the strain of separation. Intensely. And that was before he'd gone and cocked up her event by forgetting the sherry.
Much as he hated to admit it, Colin was right. He needed a hero's errand. It had been years now since he'd given up a fortune to be with Pauline, and it seemed like a gesture he should be repeating weekly. But he only had the one fortune to give.
Tonight, he was going to rescue a waterlogged spinster.
"Let's make ready, then," Griff said. "We'll need to be quick."
"I suppose that's true," Rycliff replied, standing. "Otherwise the ladies will solve the problem on their own, as always. Are you with us, Thorne?
In answer, Thorne rose to his feet.
"Then it's settled," Griff said. "Gather at my house in thirty minutes. I need to look in on my children first."
"Make it an hour." Colin reached for his hat. "I've a few things to do. Saddle my horse. Find my greatcoat. And give my wife two screaming orgasms." He leveled a finger at Thorne. "I tell you, Mr. This Morning, I won't be outdone by the likes of you."
Nora gathered her valise. "My trunk?"
"Is staying put unless you carry it," Dash answered.
"But--"
He'd already turned away and started walking across a snow-dusted field, covering the ground in long strides.
Nora hastened to follow. She had no choice. What with the swirling snow, she had no idea where they were headed or what she'd do if she found herself alone.
Together, they trudged through the mud and snow. She stumbled into a furrow that was hidden by a thin crust of ice and the dusting of new snow. Ice-cold, muddy water came up to her knees.
By the time they reached the cottage, her damp petticoats had stiffened, and her toes were nearly frozen through.
When Dash pressed against the door and found it barred, Nora's heart became a lump of ice. But he found a small, knotted string to lift the latch and pushed the door open.
He made an ironic bow. "Ladies first."
"H-how long do you think it will take the driver to return?" she asked, ducking through the doorway.
"He won't return until morning."
"Morning?"
She looked about the tiny hut they currently occupied. It was such a small space--no bigger than a closet, really. Just a woodburning stove, a lone stool, and simple table. There was one small, high window--a rough opening with no glass, currently shuttered.
And a single, narrow bed.
She had nowhere to hide. Not from his wrath, and not from her own feelings, either.
"Dash, we can't stay here all night alone. Together."
"If you don't care to stay," he said, "here's the door."
When she made no move to leave, he closed the door and dropped the bar in the latch.
Nora tested the narrow bed with her hand. It creaked, but at least she didn't feel the straw-stuffed mattress shifting with vermin. She lifted a rolled quilt from the foot of the bed and unfurled it with a snap of her arms--just as he turned to face her.
A cloud of dust bloomed, instantly coating his eyebrows and hair with gray powder.
He stared at her, choking on dust. Or possibly choking on his rage.
Nora bit her lip. "Sorry."
"If," he said tightly, standing still as a statue, "you think I'm happy about this turn of events . . . I assure you, I am not."
"I can see that."
Nora struggled not to laugh. With those dust-frosted brows and his stern expression, he looked like a grumpy old hermit. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and held it out as a peace offering.
He took it and angrily swabbed at his face. "I would much rather this weren't our situation. Once, while we were sailing around the Cape of Good Hope with Sir Bertram's expedition, a squall came up. We had to lash ourselves to the masts and cling for dear life as massive waves swamped our ship. It was the most wretched, harrowing night I've ever experienced."
"Are you saying you'd rather be there than here?"
"No. I'm saying I'd rather you were there than here."
"Really. There's no need to be cruel."
He made an amused sound. "Perhaps there isn't a need. But there's a powerful desire." He swept a look down her form. "You need to undress."
"What? I will not."
He ignored her protest. His hands went to the row of buttons down the front of her traveling frock, yanking them loose, one by one. "Those boots and skirts are soaked through. I'd imagine your stockings are, as well. I can imagine it now. Lord Ashwood Gave Me the Ague."
"I'll do it myself, thank you." She put her hands over his, stopping his progress. His fingertips were freezing. By instinct, she rubbed her palms up and down his chilled skin. "Oh, Dash. These hands are ice. You need to warm yourself, too."
Their eyes met and held for a tense moment.
Nora silently cursed herself. Here was the root of all her problems. No matter how poorly he treated her, no matter how little he returned her feelings--her silly heart insisted on caring for him, just the same.
He released her. "I'll make a fire."
She turned away, trying to remove her wet frock, petticoats, and stockings with as much modesty as possible. Dash was right, her legs were soaked to the skin. It was only when her feet started to warm that she realized how cold they'd been. Her toes felt pricked by a thousand needles.
When she was down to her stays and her relatively dry chemise, she wrapped the dusty quilt about her shoulders and sat down on the bed, tucking her feet under her thighs.
Dash had removed his own coat, waistcoat, and cravat, hanging them on a peg near the door. As she watched, he banged about the cabin in male, violent ways. Slinging splits of wood about, jabbing the ashes in the stove with a poker, slamming the woodbox open and shut. So physical. Strong.
His broad shoulders strained the damp, nearly translucent fabric of his shirt.
Nora cleared her throat. "Could you--?"
"Could I what, Nora? Cease making a fire? Let you freeze here alone? Don't tempt me."
She set her chin. "Could you let me know how I might be of help? What are you searching for?"
"Tinder." He turned a look about the tiny cabin, and his eyes landed on her valise. "I don't suppose you travel with copies of that wretched pamphlet?"
Nora ignored his baiting words. She removed a flat wooden box from her valise and set it on the table. "I do have blank paper. I'll shred some while you pile the wood."
She opened the travel desk and looked over the contents: Paper, quills, ink, penknife. Taking a piece of paper, she folded it back and forth, again and again, until it resembled a paper fan. Then she took her knife and began to slice it into shavings.
Having piled the wood in the stove, Dash took the results of her little crafting project and strategically heaped it beneath the wood. He struck the flint, sending a spark into the stove. The paper caught easily, and the cheery flame gave Nora hope--but then it dwindled and died. The wood hadn't caught.
"More," Dash said.
Nora took out another sheet and repeated her process. Dash struck the flint and managed a spark. But the flames soon died, just as before.
"Again," he demanded.
This time, as he blew steadily into the tiny paper-fueled blaze, Nora bit her lip. If they didn't get a fire before nightfall . . .
It would be a long, dark night--but not a lonely one. They would be forced to huddle together for warmth.
Nora would rather be lashed to the mast off the Cape of Good Hope.
She rose from the bed and went to his side, crouching next to him, adding her lungs to the effort. They took turns feeding the blaze with their breath, until her sides ached and her head was dizzy.
At last, the wood caught.
Relief washed through her, and warmth and light began to suffuse their small quarters.
Unfortunately, now that the fire was lit, it became clear that a long night stretched before them both. They had no food, no amusements, and little to occupy themselves.
Heaven knew they didn't wish to talk to one another.
Dash pulled a silver flask from his pocket and uncapped it before offering it to her. "Brandy."
"No, thank you."
"It wasn't a question." He pushed the flask into her hand. "You need to warm from the inside, too."
Nora accepted a cautious sip. The liquid fire spread through her empty belly, warming her insides and muddling her wits.
She passed the flask back to him, and he tipped it to his lips for a long, greedy swallow. Then another.
Wonderful, she thought. Because drunkenness was exactly what this miserable evening lacked.
He drummed his fingers on the table. A brisk progression of first finger to last. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Over and over.
Over . . .
And over . . .
And over.
Nora set her teeth.
"Do you know any songs?" he asked.
She was silent.
"I know songs," he said, in a lascivious tone. "Sailor shanties, mostly. They're all unspeakably vulgar."
He continued the steady drumming of his fingers. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
This was going to be the longest night of her life.
For once in her life, Nora wished she were one of those ladies who traveled with needlework to occupy her hands. Instead, she settled for taking her quills from her writing desk, one by one, and whittling the nibs to arrow-sharp points. Her knife scratched against the quill again and again--a brittle, repetitive sound that was likely to annoy him.
She hoped it annoyed him. Two could play at his game.
Scratch.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Scrrratch.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Scrrrrrrrra--
Dash whipped a sheet of paper from her traveling desk and reached for the pen in her hand. "Do you know, I believe I shall write a pamphlet of my own. It will be titled Lord Ashwood Has No Regrets."
"How clever of you."
"Don't worry." He cut her a sharp look. "I'll change your name. By one letter. To Miss Frowning, I think."
"You would not help your cause. I am a figure of public sympathy. You would only cement your image as a villain."
"Better a villain than a laughingstock." He dipped the pen and continued to write. "But this is hardly the extent of my revenge. If you think my pamphlet is bad, just wait until I sue you."
"Sue me? For what?
"For libel, naturally."
"You can't sue me for libel. The truth is a defense against libel."
"There was nothing of truth in that screed. The entire thesis of your pamphlet is faulty."
"How so?"
He set the pen aside. "I took the opportunity to expand my knowledge, use my talents, and explore the world--and yet you say I missed out? Because I didn't stay within five miles of my birthplace and settle down with the girl next door?"
He held out his hands, palms up, like a pair of scales with his options weighed on either side.
He lifted one hand. "A world of adventure." He lifted the other. "You."
Nora stared at him. How dare he?
She'd laid herself bare in that pamphlet. It had terrified her merely committing the words to paper in the solitude of her room. Allowing it to be published was her greatest act of courage in life, and so much good had come from it. She'd come away with friendships, respect, a career of sorts--as much as gentlewomen were permitted to have careers. Women from all over England and beyond wrote to her, expressing their gratitude.
"I will not allow you to treat me this way," she said. "You're not the only one who explored his talents these recent years. I have attained a certain measure of success."
"Yes. You did." He leaned forward. "And you used me to get it. Shamelessly trampled my good name for your own petty reasons. I would have every justification for exacting revenge. In writing and in court. Unless . . ."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you can prove it."
"Prove it?"
"Demonstrate to my satisfaction that I missed out on something. Anything." He crossed his arms on the table. "We're here, and we do have all night."
What?
If he was suggesting what he seemed to be suggesting, he was a rogue. "You can't mean to force me to--"
"I'm not forcing anything. But answer me this. If I missed out on something so wonderful, how do you explain the fact that every other man in England is equally dense? You could have married elsewhere by now. Surely some man would have seen what I did not."
She pulled the quilt about her shoulders. "I have been too busy for dances and courting."
"Too busy creating a reputation as a manhating virago, you mean. I suppose that would scare lesser men away."
Lesser men?
What was that phrase meant to signify? He probably hoped she would ask. Nora decided to refuse him the satisfaction.
To be truthful, the last few years had been too busy. She simply hadn't any opportunity for courtship. Even if she had, no gentleman had caught her eye. She thought perhaps she'd grown out of infatuations and would never be interested in any man.
But here Dash was again, being maddeningly interesting.
Not merely interesting.
Captivating.
Now that the firelight had filled the small hut, she had the opportunity to study him. She was fascinated by the map the world had drawn on his body, while he was out mapping the world. Small, squinting lines around his eyes, and a thin scar on his forearm, and tanned skin that gave way to a slightly paler hue above his wrists, and on the exposed wedge of his chest.
He tapped the table in impatience. "I'm waiting. What is it I missed?"
She cleared her throat. "To begin, you missed out on a partner who is your intellectual equal. In London, you
surrounded yourself with those brainless beauties."
"Surely you, champion of the female sex, don't mean to argue that beautiful women cannot also be intelligent."
"No. Of course, I should never say that."
"Good. Because if you attempted to make such an absurd statement, I could produce a dozen examples of beautiful and intelligent women to disprove it."
"That won't be necessary."
Ugh. The last thing Nora wanted was to hear a recounting of his many beautiful, clever lovers. The very thought made her stomach churn.
"In fact," he said, "I needn't look beyond this cottage. I could begin the list with you."
CHAPTER FIVE
Dash watched closely as her cheeks darkened to a satisfying blush.
"What?" she said.
"You," he repeated. "You are a woman who is both intelligent and beautiful."
She was obviously flustered by this statement.
He was right. She didn't know.
It made him perversely happy that she didn't. He liked being the one to tell her. It meant no other man had.
"You never noticed me. Not that way."
Wrong again, Nora.
He had noticed her, even then. When she'd tagged along on his fishing excursions with Andrew. During all those mathematics and Latin lessons she'd wheedled her way into joining. She was always in the periphery of his view.
Now she'd come into focus. Eyes bright and keen, skin cleared of all its youthful spots. Womanly curves in full abundance.
"I mean, I do believe you gave me some credit, intellectually. When we were younger, you had great respect for my mind."
He choked on a laugh. To be sure, he'd known she was clever. But her mind wasn't what had distracted him from his geometric proofs, much less what had haunted him during restless nights. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
"There were so many times when my father would ask you to come to the slate, and you would sit back and say, 'I don't have the answer, but I suspect Miss Browning does. Let's allow her to have a go.' Don't you recall?"
"I recall."
"Why else would you do that?"
"Because I couldn't go to the slate. Not without embarrassing myself."
"Don't be absurd. I know you must have known the answers. You were always so quick with figures."
He rubbed his eyes. "Oh, Nora. I was sixteen years old. My figures weren't the reason I declined to go to the slate. It was your figure."
"I don't follow you."
"I was a randy youth. You were a blossoming young woman. Do you understand me now?"
She stared at him blankly.
Apparently he would have to spell this out.