Excellent.
But she may have had a point. About the details. He did not need her to speak to them, but what if Mr. Barlow or his wife asked a question of amore personal nature? What if he asked how they met? Then Rowan would be left floundering. Didn't like that. He’d have to spin a small, simple tale to answer such questions. But he did not need to wake her and let her know because he would be the only one speaking upon arrival.
He allowed himself to relax against the squabs and study her. More than her figure, he contemplated a past between them. Where had they met? And how? Not at a ball. He did not go to those. In Hyde Park? But what would have brought them together along that path?
At the hotel, perhaps? Yes, that might feed the right kind of story to Mr. Barlow. She had been traveling with her family and… then what? Why did a man decide to take a woman for his wife? Aunt Lavinia had offered several reasons of late, companionship and children first among them. Most men sought money and power through marriage. But he did not need the former and did not desire the latter. Only Mr. Barlow could give him what he wanted, and that man did not appear to have an unwed daughter of marriageable age.
Companionship left then, children, but those seemed too dangerous. What if he died or his wife died or the child died? How could you bring a child into this world and not love it, and then if anything should happen… His hand had become a fist on his thigh, and he purposely flattened it out, then shook it just a bit to loosen the muscles.
All this—nothing but a story. Nothing, certainly, to fear. All made up.
Her golden eyelashes fluttered slightly above her cheekbones. A curl had come unbound and escaped from her bonnet, and it tumbled across her temple. She wore, he realized for the first time, fine clothing—a gown of delicate muslin, a spencer with intricate braid work, stout walking boots, a new bonnet, spotless gloves. Expensive stuff.
Who was Sarah Crewe? Who was his wife? What would he tell Barlow?
The coach reached the limits of London and traveled on, and as the miles unraveled behind them, the answer unraveled easily, simply in Rowan’s mind.
He'd met her at his hotel. And to see her was to become a little more than fixated with her. He'd begun to look for her around everycorner, even though he had not known her name. And the first time he'd had an opportunity to speak with her, he'd grasped it with both hands, no matter the shock it had given him. Even when she disagreed with him, he found her conversation scintillating. What other option had he but to ask for her hand in marriage? Married in a small church in London surrounded by her family (faceless) and his (the admiral and Aunt Lavinia). Roses all around, even in her hair. Did she like roses? She did not seem like a rose sort of woman, but nor did she appear a daisy. Perhaps… tulips. Yes, something without the rose’s mythos but more elegant than the simple daisy. There had been sun the day they married. And it had filled all the windows, and he had sneezed fifty times at least, but she had smiled, and so he would have sneezed fifty more.
He’d bought a townhouse, and he’d moved out of his apartments at Hestia. He used to live his life in those halls, day and night, and now he haunted their home instead. And she loved Hestia as he did, but she knew it better than he because she embraced passion more, did not fear its scorching embrace. She knew the servants’ names and all the guests, and when they ate dinner together every night, they told each other little stories, and…
Silly fancies. Not worth his time.
But he had nothing better to do for the next several hours. How many hours? He squinted as he looked out the window at fields, sky, grass. They’d traveled some ways while he’d daydreamed. The time and distance had passed quickly, and with her gentle, sleeping silence as inspiration, the tales came quickly, too. It was too easy to spin them, natural as the sun waking at the sea’s horizon. Bright yellow spilling across endless fathoms of water, which could be poured into any shape—bright and malleable.
Just like his tales.
Harmless things. Just stories. No reason not to let them eat away the distance and gaping time between here and there, between so close to his dream and actually possessing it. The Blue Sheep Inn. His only desire. But as he fluttered into sleep, that dream melted into others, into those partial truths constructed by the sounds of Miss Sarah Crewe’s soft snores.
Chapter Seven
Rowan always dreamed in color. That made it difficult at times to tell whether he was waking or sleeping. No difficulty now, though. Because his dream self stood in his Hestia apartments, and instead of being pulled tight, all the curtains were thrown wide open. More confusing, Miss Crewe waltzed through each room, yanking the curtains down. She opened the windows and tossed them out, and the rooms became brighter one by one. Rowan sneezed, at first a great avalanche ofachoos. But once every curtain had been purged from the apartment, and he’d been fully immersed in light, the rooms entirely bare but for him and Miss Crewe and sunshine, the sneezes stopped.
She walked toward him slowly, inexorably, across the sun-filled room. And then that room began to shake. His entire being toppled out of balance, and he began to fall into a dark pit of nothingness and—
He woke with a start to the gloom and shadows of the jolting coach, to the bright blue of Miss Crewe’s eyes.
Her hands were on his shoulders, giving little shakes. “Mr. Trent. Good afternoon. We are, I believe, almost there. I saw the sign uponentering town—The Blue Sheep in bold letters stretched across the street. It must be the largest establishment in the vicinity. I would expect nothing less from you. And I expect you do not wish to meet Mr. Barlow with sleep in your eye. You look startled. Were you dreaming?”
“A nightmare,” he growled, swiping her hands away from his shoulders. Pulling back the curtain, he looked out the window, squinting, sneezing because of the abrupt shift from dark to light. He sniffed and wiggled his nose.
“See. You have a cold.”
“I do not. You're right. We're almost there.”
“I still think we should discuss our story.”
“No reason for it.”
“You know, while I was napping, I was thinking—”
“Not two things that are compatible.”
“I was thinking that your plan is inherently flawed. You say I will meet Mr. Barlow as your wifeonce. And then the ruse is over.”
He nodded. “The plan is not flawed. It is perfect.”
“But what happens if he comes to London and asks to meet me? What happens if he asks around in the village where, presumably he will still live, and he finds out that the new owner of the inn is not, after all, married? You forget, Mr. Trent, that people talk.”
