“Not what? People who sit in chairs?”
She flushed.
He continued, “I meant what I said. We’re not married. I have no designs on you—”
She gestured around her. “But we’re sharing a room—”
“You heard the innkeeper. There were no other rooms to be had.”
“And you’ve requested a bath be brought up,” she challenged.
“Would you prefer I not bathe?” He arched an eyebrow at her, knowing full well everyone in the world preferred he did.
At that, her lips pursed and he knew she could smell him even from where she stood. “Of c-course . . . only where am I to go during your—”
At the moment, a knock rattled the door. He rose and passed her to open it.
Several lads carried in buckets of steaming water. They pulled back the screen in the corner and poured water into the copper tub. Nodding deferentially, they took their leave.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he eyed the water.
An older woman arrived with soap and towels. “Can I get ye anything else, sirrah?”
Alyse looked rather desperately around her, her mouth opening and closing as though she wanted to ask for something. Something like a weapon. Or a ladder to escape out the window.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you have a parlor where one might take tea?” He nodded to Alyse. “I would like some privacy for my bath.”
“Oh.” The woman nodded, tucking her plump hands inside her pinafore. “Yes, we do.” She nodded to the door, eyeing Alyse expectantly. “Shall I escort ye there, ma’am?”
Alyse nodded rapidly, her eyes alive with relief. “That would be wonderful.”
“Come now.” The woman walked out the door, waving her to follow.
Alyse quickly trailed after her. And that was a bit of irony. He knew a good amount of females who would have been grateful to ogle him at his bath. This one wanted no part of that.
“Go on with you,” he tossed after her. “Perhaps they’ll serve biscuits with that tea.”
She paused, bestowing him a tentative smile and then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.
Turning, he started stripping off his clothes. He cast them aside with relish, determined to never wear them again.
Sinking down into the bath, he moaned in pleasure and leaned back in the copper tub. After a moment, he dunked below the water’s surface. Coming up, he reached for the soap. Lathering his hair, his hands drifted to the thick bristle covering his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved since he left London. He hadn’t cared to bother. It felt rather defiant, eschewing his customary shave each morning. And that felt good. Casting aside the trappings of his life felt damn good.
His father would have hated the beard. As would his stepmother. They wouldn’t approve of anything he was doing. Shunning his title. Journeying to some forgotten piece of property. Buying a woman off an auction block . . .
They wouldn’t know him at all. He wasn’t certain he could claim to even know himself anymore.
He dragged his fingers through the beard. It was damnable itchy.
They didn’t serve biscuits with the tea, but the room was cozy and the chair thick and comfortable and her cup warm in her hands. As crowded as the inn happened to be, the small parlor was unoccupied. Voices and the clang of dishes carried from the neighboring taproom full of patrons. That seemed the popular place to be, and she was glad for the privacy of this room. Glad that she was not forced to be above stairs with him as he took his bath.
As she sank deeper in the plush chair, she contemplated leaving this place, this village. Bolting. Fetching the mule from the stables and going back to Collie-Ben where she could prevail upon Nellie or Mr. Beard. Except the idea made her flinch. It was problematic. Nellie was in no position to offer assistance and Mr. Beard was unwilling.
She sighed. The more viable recourse was to stay. Keep on with Weatherton and hope that she remained unmolested in his company. Hope the offer of employment was legitimate. Hope that this was the only night they would be forced to share a room.
It was all a risk, of course. One she would take while staying ever alert and ready to protect herself.
Her gaze narrowed on the tea service beside her chair. Even though the maid had not bothered to supply her with any biscuits or sandwiches there was a small butter spreader. Hardly the sharpest of knives, but it was . . . something. She reached out and picked it up, tucking it inside her bodice.
She actually dozed off in front of the fireplace, waking abruptly when a garrulous pair of women entered the parlor.
“Och!” one of the women exclaimed, looking Alyse over critically. “Didn’t know the room was already occupied.” She tugged off her fine-looking gloves with a sniff and glanced at the innkeeper as though he needed to rectify this.
Alyse glanced at the clock above the mantel. She’d been gone nearly an hour. She rose, brushing a hand against her bodice. The butter spreader was still there. “I was just leaving.”
The innkeeper looked relieved that he did not have to ask her to leave. She exited the parlor and made her way up the stairs and down the corridor to their room. Their room. She cringed.
Weatherton should have had enough time to finish his bath by now. She knocked on the door tentatively. Muffled footsteps sounded and then the door swung open.
She looked up, expecting to see the familiar sight of Weatherton.
Only it wasn’t him. A younger man stared back at her, the tall lean lines of his body filling the threshold to capacity. He was so handsome she actually blinked as though needing to clear her vision. Smooth-shaven. Square-jawed. Aquiline nose. Lips well-shaped, the bottom full. Like he’d just finished kissing someone. She stopped breathing altogether at that unsolicited thought. She held it in for several punishing moments.
It had been a long messy day. She exhaled. He was quite certainly the prettiest man she had ever seen and the sight of him addled her head.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I must have the wrong room.”
He angled his head and looked at her curiously. Then his voice came—cultured and deep, a rub of gravel on her skin. Gooseflesh broke out over her skin and she rubbed at her arm. “Alyse.”
The instant he spoke, she knew. His deep tones washed over her and her gaze darted to his eyes. Those familiar blue eyes. There was no mistaking them.
Dear God. This was the man who bought her. Her employer. He’d bathed and shaved and was positively transformed.
He was . . . beautiful.
No no no no. He could not be this. He could not look like this. She could not be stuck with . . . this.
She wanted to disappear into the floorboards.
He wore fresh clothing. Dark trousers and a white lawn shirt without a cravat. It gaped open at the neck, hinting at a well-formed upper chest. In fact, all of him was well-formed.
If she had any doubts as to the validity of their union, this confirmed it. She could not be married to this man. She wasn’t. He was as far removed from her as the moon itself.
It was as he said. They were not man and wife and she would do well never to forget that—to never let herself be so seduced by his looks that she dared to dream for more from him.
“Forgive me. I did not recognize you.”
His lips twitched and she knew he was enjoying this . . . enjoying discomfiting her. Men who looked as he did could not be unaware of their impact on the female gender. He was aware that he had unnerved her—she who had made no attempt to hide her distaste for his aroma—and he was amused at the reaction.
He stepped aside so that she could enter the room. Grasping for the fraying ribbons of her composure, she crossed the threshold into his room. Their room for the night.
“Did you enjoy your tea?” He shut the door after her.
She nodded mutely, struggling to find her tongue as she drifted forward and stopped before the fireplace. She held her hands out to its warmth.
“I trust my person does n
ot offend your nose anymore.” Oh, he was really enjoying this.
She nodded jerkily, not allowing herself to look at him again. Not yet. That first look had been bad enough. His beauty was imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. Of course the man had no wish to be her husband. With a face like his and pockets that ran deep, why would he want someone like her?
He continued, “I’ve asked that dinner be served in our room. I confess I did not sleep well last night. My accommodations weren’t idyllic.” Even with her back to him she could hear an edge of derision in his voice. “I would not mind retiring early tonight so that we might get an early start in the morning.”
Her gaze swerved to the bed at his mention of sleep. She nodded in agreement. What else could she do? Did she think he would molest her? He had established that he had no interest in her for base purposes. Clearly he could find any number of willing bedmates far more attractive than she if that was his inclination.
Except she knew that cruelty defied logic. He could hurt her simply because he could. His pretty face changed nothing. She needed to remain on guard.
Sucking in a deep breath, she rubbed her slightly warmed hands together. At her inhalation, she felt the press of the butter spreader inside her bodice. Silly as it seemed, it was a comfort. Somehow just having the cutlery in close proximity made her feel stronger.
Turning, she faced him again, telling herself that he didn’t need to know just how little she trusted him. Blast. The sight of him was no less astonishing than it had been when he first opened the door.
“You’re looking at me as though you fear I might gobble you up.”
Apparently she was more transparent than she thought.
She relaxed her features. “Not at all. I . . . thank you,” she managed, aware that she should probably at least appear to be appreciative. She hadn’t gotten the words out before. It was probably overdue.
He arched an eyebrow as though mildly surprised. “You’re thanking me . . . why?”
She swallowed thickly. “You saved me from a wretched fate.” She motioned around them. “You’re caring for my needs. You’ve offered me employment.” It was all true, she supposed. If he delivered all he claimed and didn’t perpetrate any dastardly deeds against her person, she owed him her gratitude.
His expression turned inscrutable again. She could not fathom his thoughts . . . specifically whether he believed in her show of appreciation.
“If you execute your duties well at Kilmarkie House then it shall all be repaid.”
She nodded. “I will serve you well as a housekeeper and pay you back for your kindness.”
“Kindness,” he mused. “I’ve been guilty of many things. Never that.”
Not exactly a bolstering personal recommendation. She eyed him warily. He stared back. Tension throbbed on the air between them, and it derived from her. He looked calm and unaffected. A man in control . . . who held all the power in this scenario.
A knock at the door spared her from replying. Weatherton bade them enter. The innkeeper stepped inside, holding the door open for two servant girls carrying in trays.
The girls gawked at her Non Husband, one practically walking right into the table in her distraction.
“Sheila!” the innkeeper snapped. “Where are yer wits?”
Sheila snapped into focus and set the tray upon the table before the fire. They quickly unloaded a bounty of food. Smoked salmon. Bannock. Tatties. Creamed turnips. Plump slices of shortbread.
Before departing the two girls dipped deep curtsies to her Non Husband, allowing him to look down the front of their dresses. They did not once glance in Alyse’s direction, instead feasting their eyes on the attractive man before them.
“Please let us ken if we can be of any other service tae ye, sir.”
“Any at all,” the other girl seconded, her eyes looking him up and down as though he were a tasty morsel she might like to bite.
“Out wi’ ye now!” the innkeeper barked.
The girls scurried from the room, darting longing looks over their shoulders.
Alyse couldn’t feel too much annoyance. He was exceptionally handsome. She could understand the need to gawk.
In the wake of the serving girls, the innkeeper nodded at them. “Ring the bell if ye need anything more, sirrah. Madam.” He ducked out and shut the door behind him.
Weatherton motioned to the table. “Shall we eat?”
She nodded.
He moved to pull out her chair. She stared at him for a startled moment. She knew men extended such courtesies to ladies, but it was a strange world indeed when she would be on the receiving end of such courtesy. Where one might perceive and treat her as a lady. Earlier today she wore a halter and stood upon an auction block. Now a gentleman held out a chair for her before a table laden with fine food and drink.
She took a seat, feeling dowdy in Nellie’s old dress. She smoothed a hand over her lap, wincing as her roughened palms snagged on the fabric. Further evidence that she was no lady. The fabric was not even delicate. Simply coarse wool.
He sat across from her and poured wine into her glass.
She copied his movements and lifted her glass, sipping the dark red liquid tentatively. “That’s good,” she murmured.
“Have you ever had claret before?”
She shook her head and took a deeper sip.
“Not too fast. It can go to your head.”
Her eyes widened and she set her glass down. She didn’t need to become addle-headed around him.
He leaned forward, peering at her.
She pressed a hand to her chin. “Is there something amiss? On my face?”
He shook his head and tapped at the side of his throat. “What is right there?”
Her hand moved to her throat, mimicking his move. “I-I don’t know.”
“Are those marks?” he asked intently.
“Oh.” She dropped her hand, instantly knowing. She’d spied the marks herself in the chamber’s dressing table mirror. “I’m sure they’re just from the rope.”
His expression clouded. Apparently he had forgotten she wore a halter like an animal. It would not be so easy for her to forget. Even after the bruises disappeared, she would remember. She would always remember.
She searched to change the subject. “How long should it take to reach your property?”
He slid his fork into his salmon as he replied, “A little over a week. Perhaps two. Weather permitting.”
That long? She would be stuck with him—alone—for so long?
She went straight for her shortbread. She couldn’t help herself. She had a sweet tooth and shortbread was a rare indulgence. Mr. Beard thought sugar an extravagance.
She bit into her first bite and moaned at the taste. She couldn’t help herself. It had been a good while since she ate and she could not recall the last time she ever consumed shortbread so sweet and moist as this. She stuffed more into her mouth while cutting another bite, cramming that in as well, forgetting all decorum as her stomach cheered in joy.
With her cheeks stuffed, her gaze collided with his.
He leaned back in his chair, his glass held idly in long tapering fingers. He watched her with hooded eyes. Unreadable eyes.
She set down her fork and worked to chew and swallow the copious amount of food in her mouth.
“Hungry?” he murmured.
She pressed her napkin to her lips, wondering if the bite would ever go down. He must think her a glutton.
Nodding, she reached for her claret and took a tiny sip to help. “I have not eaten since this morning.” And I have not eaten this well since Papa passed. Oh, she’d never starved in the Beard household. They had chickens and pigs on the farm. Vegetables from the garden. But a meal like this was the type she only read about in books.
“Eat,” he encouraged with a wave of his hand. “Go on. You need some meat on your bones.”
After a moment, she picked up her fork again and resumed, stealing glances at him. Despite how hun
gry she was, practically falling upon her food, he finished before she did and was left studying her as she finished. It was unnerving, but she did not let it deter her. She ate every bit of the food before her.
“You speak well for a . . . country girl.”
He hesitated before arriving at the word country and she wondered what word he really wanted to use. Provincial? Peasant?
He meant she didn’t sound like a rustic. She’d been told that before. Others in the village claimed she put on airs.
“My father was a learned man. A teacher. Originally from Newcastle.”
“Ah.” He settled his hands on the arms of his chair.
“I can keep household accounts for you,” she volunteered, happy to point out her usefulness.
“You read and write then. As the auctioneer said.”
She stiffened at his reference to her time on that platform. “Yes. I can read and write as Mr. Hines had advertised.” She squared her shoulders. “And I’m quite good with numbers.”
“That should be useful.”
“And I could be useful in London, should you decide to take me with you when you return there.” Hope stirred in her chest. She couldn’t resist. He was from London and that’s where she ultimately wished to go.
A shutter fell over his eyes. “I think not.”
She sagged a bit in her chair. “Well . . . something to keep in mind.” She could not relinquish that dream. Someday she would get there. She’d serve her time as his housekeeper, earn enough money and then go. Be free.
“No,” he announced, his tone emphatic.
The single word jarred her. As though he could read her thoughts and was pronouncing no to her private longings. She bristled . . . until she realized he was simply being curt.
“I don’t know my plans,” he continued, “but should I ever return to London I see no need to bring you with me. I’ve offered you a respectable position at Kilmarkie House. That should suit you.”
That should suit you.
She stared at him in mute frustration. The skin near her eye twitched. Here was another man deciding her fate, telling her what should suit her. Papa, as much as she loved him, had done the same for her at the age of ten and five. Then Mr. Beard made all the decisions and now this Marcus Weatherton was deciding things.