“They do not.” They did. Of course they did. Hell. “I'll simply tell them you're dead.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her heart. “You will murder me?”
“You'll die of consumption or something of the sort.”
She pulled up taller than before. “Do I appear consumptive?”
“You appear healthy as a horse. It is Mrs. Trent who is consumptive.”
“Despite the comparison to a horse, I will take that as a compliment.”
“I mean neither insult nor compliment. Do not read into my words more than is there.”
She pulled at the hem of her glove, straightening it. “Hm. I shall have to act consumptive, then. Give a little cough. Sniffle into ahandkerchief. But how sad. Consumption is terribly serious, you know. Oh! I should swoon into your arms at least once, brought low by the flurry of activity.”
“Good God, don’t do that.” But he wanted to laugh. No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Yes, he did.
She returned her attention to the only sliver of window available to gaze out through the closed curtain, thinking. That did not bode well. If the woman could think while she was sleeping, who knew what she could do while waking.
“Listen here, Miss Crewe—”
The carriage lurched to a stop, stealing his words and tossing Miss Crewe forward as his body slammed back into the squabs. She toppled onto his lap, her hands catching her on the seat on either side of his body. The top of her head brushed up against his chin, her breasts nearly brushed against his chest, and her thighs and hips met oh so lightly against his knees, like the tiniest of kisses.
He gripped every one of his muscles in a vise to better control them, and she lifted her head to look at him. He saw first that glimpse of blue, and then a flash of pink he could not resist, and then—damn himself to hell—he was staring at her lips. He could control his muscles all he wished, but he could not control where his gaze landed, and his eyes were hungry, ravenous for the sight of her lips.
Like a magnet drawn to its mate, he bent lower, aching for a taste.
She made a little squeak and bounced backwards, away from him and back into her seat across from him. The smile that stretched wide across her face was the most unnatural thing he'd ever seen on her. “We've arrived.” She spoke much too loudly.
But he was glad for it. It jarred some sense into him. He’d been about to do something quite, quite wrong. He opened the coach door, stepped down, and held out his hand. He waited and he waited. He waited so long he almost stuck his head back inside to see what kept her, but just as he moved to do just that, her hand appeared, small and graceful in the lace glove.
He’d seen her hands without gloves when she had not thought hewas looking, watching them hold silver trays and pour tea and dip into the soapy water of wooden buckets. The gloves conferred graceful elegance on what he knew to be strong and capable.
When her feet were firmly on the ground, he released her hand and strode for the inn only to find after a couple of long steps her arms looping around one of his and tugging. He stopped, more from confusion than from any force she might have exerted over him.
Her grin meant trouble. “Wait for me, my dear.” That smile could slice a man’s confidence in two. She kept one elbow looped about his and settled in on his forearm, and then she placed her opposite hand on top of her first, so that all ten fingertips touched his coat at some place. It felt like a claiming. That looped arm, those proprietary hands said,This man, ladies, ismine.
His gut flipped. And he smushed it down, locked in place. No flipping. Absolutelynoflipping. He set his mouth into a determined line and ushered her forward toward the inn. The door opened before they arrived, and an older gentleman with wispy white hair strode out to meet them. Small silver spectacles perched on the end of his nose just over ruddy cheeks and a wide grin.
“You can be no other than Mr. Trent,” he said, holding his arms out wide. “And this”—his gaze slipped to Miss Crewe—“must be Mrs. Trent.”
They met the old man in the middle of the courtyard, and Rowan offered a brief nod of acknowledgement as Miss Crewe bobbed a curtsy.
Enough pleasantries. Rowan opened his mouth to say so.
“How did you know it was us?” Miss Crewe asked instead.
“Your husband looks like his letters. His face is as dour as his sentence structure.”
“Hm.” She studied Rowan. “I see what you mean. Precise. Without a single unnecessary word.”
“Exactly, Mrs. Trent. You know your husband well.”
“And, I venture to guess, his ink is as black as his hair.”
Mr. Barlow roared with laughter. “Just so!”
