Daring done right, p.18
Daring Done Right, page 18
She wore the hard-lipped look of someone who would speak no more, and the self-doubt he’d seen glimpses of in the past weeks settled about her now like a mourning veil, drenching her in hazy sorrow.
Edith would tell him to wait. To listen.
He was not a patient man. He liked to beat nails with hammers and ride horses too fast. He preferred the action of stomping about his future estates to the intellectual work of looking over the books, and if this woman looked ready to sink into despair, he’d always jump to save her.
He slipped his hand behind her neck.
She stiffened, gasped, but some of the sorrow dissipated like fog in the dawn of desire.
He turned her head to face him, and she stared up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.
Xavier ran his thumb over her lower lip, pink and sweet and too fond of spouting nonsense.
“You’re bloody brilliant,” he said, “and I’ll kick you out of this gig if you suggest otherwise again.”
Her lips parted even farther, putting a gasp between them, but the world likely never heard it because he bashed through the sound to reach her lips and kiss her. Their lips fit together like the waters of a lake lapping against the shore, and they fell into an eternal rhythm of give and take, of conquering and sharing.
She pulled away, breathing hard.
“Will you behave?” he asked, each word low and husky.
The cart veered, and she pulled away to straighten their path once more.
She sighed, weary and sad. “You’ve taken a great diversion away from me, you understand. Hating you used to consume many of my hours. What shall I do when I cannot amuse myself thinking of ways you may meet your demise?”
“I’ve a few suggestions.” He inched closer, nestled his thigh next to hers, and she neither flinched nor slid away.
“Xavier?”
“Hm?”
“I’ve come to think you deserve to wed a very good woman indeed.”
“As you say, Queenie.” He straightened his jacket, his cuffs, but could not remove her passion. She’d ruffled him forever, this very good woman. Perhaps he did not have to worry about retreat. She’d shared herself with him, shared her pain and her doubt. And she’d let him lift her out of it.
She laughed, a great tumbling of joy from between her lips, but it died a swift death, and she tilted her head as she peered, blank, into the distance. “Sometimes the ogre ends up being a prince. Mother did often remind me of that. But”—Sarah lifted her chin high—“she had nothing to say on the subject of brutes. And ogres are an entirely different matter. Better manners.”
He snickered. Clever woman.
“Look!” She thrust a hand out, a finger pointing. “Is that?”
Buildings raised above the treetops.
“I think it is,” he said
“Bristol,” they breathed together.
“Do you smell that?” he asked. “Salt in the air.”
“The sea.” She grinned so wide the sun likely hid for fear of being burned. “We’ve done it!”
“Where are you supposed to meet Clarington?” he asked.
“The Ocean Duck Inn.”
“Very well, then. Here.” He held out his hands. “Let me drive for a bit. So you can don your wig and skirts.”
She handed over the reins and pulled her skirt and wig up from under the seat. Dirty, crumpled beyond hope. She wrinkled her nose but put them on. “Perhaps tomorrow I can wear something clean. I’ve a valise in the back with an extra gown and shift, among other things.”
“Other things?”
“Clean sheets for the bed. In case I must stay the night.”
He grunted because the image of her wrapped up in clean sheets and nothing else knocked him on his metaphorical arse, stole his breath, and tied him up in those sheets, too. Damn, but his trousers were too tight.
“Well-prepared,” he managed to mumble.
She grinned. “As much as I can be.”
He leaned over and pecked her temple with a kiss.
She jerked away. “None of that!” But her voice held a laugh that soaked into his soul.
All awkwardness between them dissipated, and the life-humming energy of excitement strung them together. This was not just an adventure; it was their adventure. Their victory.
Chapter Seventeen
Sarah bounced as the gig passed between rows of buildings she’d never seen before. Not that she could currently see them. The sun had dipped so far into the land, she saw only hulking shadows with vague outlines. Still, she could now boast Bristol as one of the few places she’d ever traveled to.
“Don’t bounce right out of the gig,” Xavier grumbled. “And you’d best leave the talking to me, too. With that wig, you’re enough of a spectacle. No need to bring further notice to you.”
Xavier. He made her smile. Made her feel like teasing. Made her feel not quite so useless.
He’d bellowed at her not to speak ill of herself. Bellowed!
She’d meant it. She did not deserve him. He needed an excellent woman. The type of woman who would help him be excellent in memory of his mother. Sarah would just tempt him into misbehavior.
“The Ocean Duck Inn?” he asked. “Any idea where it is?”
She shook her head, but with the dark having lowered its thick blanket over everything, she could not be sure he’d seen.
“No,” she said. “I should have asked. Error on my part.” She tugged on the reins, slowing the gig.
“What the hell are you doing?” Xavier hissed.
“Ask that man right there”—she pointed toward a gentleman walking toward them on Xavier’s side of the street—“about the Ocean Duck.” She pulled to a stop.
“Ridiculous name for an inn.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir?” His voice rose high on a wave of flickering light from the streetlamps.
The man’s steps faltered, halted all together. “Yes?”
Sarah ducked her face into the shadows of the cloak’s hood.
“I’m looking for the Ocean Duck Inn,” Xavier said. “Can you point the way?”
“Oh. Yes, yes. Sure enough can. You’re almost there. See that building? Turn right after it. Then, go all the way to the end.”
Xavier tipped his hat, Sarah put the gig back into motion, and soon they’d stopped in a bustling inn yard.
Xavier leaned close and whispered, “I’ll stay in the gig until we reach the stables, then sneak into the dining room. If you need me.”
Sarah handed the reins off to a groom with a nod for both men and stepped down and retrieved her valise.
No Clarington in the courtyard.
She took a steadying breath and strode inside, darting between ladies and gentlemen, bonnets and silver-tipped walking sticks, between those posh and preening and those battered from life at sea. The white ceiling hung low, supported by heavy-looking dark brown beams, and several of the women bustling about wore the same stark-white apron and yellow knit flowers in their hair. Serving maids, likely.
The man behind the bar boasted a bald pate and a generous mustache, black as a raven’s wing. He had sharp eyes and rubbed the bar with a bright white square of linen over and over. The bar gleamed.
She sidled up to the shining but nicked oak surface, hiding her features with her cloak as much as possible. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a gentleman, a Lord Clarington. Has he arrived?”
The man continued cleaning his already pristine bar as he lifted his head, revealing a single, raised brow that clearly asked why the hell Sarah wanted to know. “Yes. Was here earlier. Left, though. After paying for a room. I only remember him ‘cuz it was so odd. You the lady he was looking for? A Lady Dare?”
She nodded, numb. He’d left? She needed to find Xavier, solid, strong Xavier who made her seethe. And laugh. And want.
Had Clarington seen them together? Recognized them and left, knowing she’d cheated the dare?
“When did he leave?” she asked.
“Hour or more ago.”
She exhaled, panic leaving her body with the breath. Thank heavens. He’d not seen them, then. Now what?
“Thank you, Mr…”
“Gunner.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Gunner.” She nodded and slipped through the doors into the dining room—large and too heavily populated for comfort—and searched for Xavier. He sat at a small table in a corner of the room, settled into a chair with his back to the crowd.
She sat at a table near the dining-room door, as far from Xavier as she could get in the crowded room, and waited. For Clarington, for the remarkable journey to come to an end, for her friends to be out of danger. And for the thing bubbling warm between her and the man across the room to make some sort of sense.
Sarah could no longer keep her eyes open. They weighed heavy even though the rest of her screamed with frustration. The stream of travelers through the inn’s dining room had thinned as she’d sat for the last several hours. Some went off to sleep no doubt, others continued their journeys. Sarah remained, waiting. The man across the room remained, watching.
And Clarington never showed.
Midnight! The appointed hour, and still his cocky sneer never passed the threshold. She’d checked with Gunner three more times, and he’d not heard or seen Clarington, either.
She could sit here no longer. She must do something. But what? Surely Xavier boiled close to explosion across the room. She’d felt his gaze on her all night, wondered how long he’d let her sit alone.
But he’d always kept his distance. She wanted him near, wanted to know his thoughts, his suggestions, his answers to the question, What now? But she couldn’t go to him. Not dressed as she was. If Clarington walked in and saw them…
She stood, a sudden movement that startled even herself as the bench she’d occupied until her rear felt numb screeched across the floor. She sailed out of the dining room and caught Gunner’s attention.
“Privy?” she asked.
He pointed a thumb toward the back. “Out that way.”
Sarah pulled her cloak tighter around her and used her nose to find the place. Then she made quick work of her wig and skirts, balling them up and shoving them into her valise. She pulled her man’s hat out and shoved it on her head, then threw the cloak back over her shoulders. An odd combination to be sure, but it hid her well enough.
She re-entered the inn and wove her way to Xavier, sat at the table next to him on a chair, so close their shoulders almost brushed, and shoved her valise under the table.
“What in hell?” he hissed. “Where did you go?”
“To change my clothes.”
“Not an improvement.”
“No. But Clarington is not looking for a lad. He’s looking for a wigged lady. If he shows—if—I’m better disguised this way.”
He snorted. They stared at the wall as silent and distanced as strangers.
“Where has he gone, Xavier? I’ve spoken to the innkeeper four times, and he says though Clarington paid for a room, he left an hour later. I don’t understand.”
“God, you look like you might faint, Queenie. I’m going to wring the devil’s neck when he finally appears. You need sustenance.” He raised a hand. “Follow my lead.”
“I already ate.”
“Oh, I saw you order food and then proceed to ignore it.”
A woman in a white apron wafted over on a smile composed entirely of honey. “Evening, sir. What can I get you? Cook’s gone home, I’m afraid. Limited pickings.”
“Whatever’s left over,” Xavier answered. “And an ale.” Xavier cleared his throat. Then again. Then louder.
“Oh!” Sarah cried in her own voice. Then deeper, “Oh, Miss? Can I have the same?”
“As sure as Sunday, you can.” The maid winked at Xavier and popped a hip at Sarah, then wove her way back across the room.
Xavier stabbed a finger into the tabletop. “You’ll drink and eat everything. Put some color in your cheeks. God, you’re trembling. And dressed as a man so I can do nothing about it. Can you come over here so we can talk?” A grumble, a pout.
“Safer here.” Sarah stayed where she was, watching the barmaid laugh with strangers at each table she passed. “She’s wonderful. So terribly… confident.” And sinking into the jealousy for the other woman’s confidence offered a much-needed distraction.
“You’re confident.” He’d managed to put a distinct scowl in his voice. “At least… you should be.”
She shrugged. “As the Dare Queen I pretend to be. The anonymity of wig and mask offer a bit of room to pretend I’m more than I am, bolder, cleverer, brighter.”
His scowl turned into a storm deep at sea, glinting, sparking, angry. “I’ve told you not to disparage yourself.”
“Clarington is gone. I’ve failed.”
“You’ve not failed. He’s cheated. And remember the consequences of speaking ill of yourself.”
She achieved a shaky smile. “There’s no gig to throw me out of here.”
He turned slowly, just his head, and riveted his focus on her. “I’ll figure something out. I’m a clever man.”
“You are.”
“I’ll remind you, when you’ve found your ire for me another day, that you said that.” He scanned the room over his shoulder. “I’ll tell my mother of your compliments, too.”
Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it when the dreary fog that had been suffocating her sailed away. She leaned slightly to the side, her shoulder bouncing off his, and whispered, “Xavier… do you often speak with your mother?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
Oh dear. He’d misplaced his wits as well as his temper.
“To her portrait. At Edith’s. To, ahem… update her on my progress. Didn’t speak to her much when she lived. I owe it to her now.”
Oh. Oh.
He cared. About so much, so very much that it made him a grump most of the time, could make him mean when he thought he’d failed.
She must remember. She currently wore pants. She currently masqueraded as a man. Clarington played some deeper game. All things that got in the way of the only thing she wanted—to round the table, settle herself in his lap, and kiss him until his worries dropped away.
“Here you are, luvs!” The waitress appeared and placed two deep bowls of stew before them, then plunked two tankards of ale at the center of the table. “Enjoy.” A wink, a hip pop—her signature move, apparently—then she left them alone once more.
“We weren’t talking about me,” Xavier grumbled, picking up the spoon in the bowl with such a violent fist she thought he might snap the flimsy bit of metal in two. “We were speaking of you. And how you pretend confidence.”
“Ah. Yes. That. Forget I said anything.” Were her words born of disappointment or shock? She sipped the stew, offered a weak smile. “Delicious.”
“Why the hell do you have to pretend?”
“This entire inn is magnificent, don’t you think?”
“Sarah.” Her name, a command, the metal snap of a snare around a rabbit’s ankle.
She grasped the tankard and took a long swallow of the ale. She set it down and wiped her sleeve over her mouth.
“If you exclaim the excellence of the ale, I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to London on my own two legs. Answer me.”
She picked at the edge of her cloak, frayed like her nerves.
He took a swallow of the ale, and it seemed to calm him down. The vein in his neck no longer pulsed. “I would like to understand, Sarah. It baffles me.”
She rubbed her hands over her face, hiding. “I have told you before. I am… common. Unexceptional.”
He sputtered, stew spewing back into his bowl.
“My sisters, a painter and a woman who remembers everything she sees and reads—they are exceptional, and I… well.” She took another swallow of ale. “When I wear the mask and wig, I become someone worth knowing, worth whispering about.”
“You don’t need a wig and a mask,” he ground out. “That woman, the Dare Queen, she’s a shadow of the woman beneath the costume.” That vein in his neck started its rapid pulsing again.
She pointed at it. “You should perhaps let me inspect that. It’s troubling.”
“That!” His entire body flinched as if he might explode out of his chair, but he somehow stopped the explosion and kept his seat. “That is why you’re exceptional.”
She looked over both shoulders at the crowded dining room. “You should perhaps calm your temper. You’re calling attention to us.”
He snorted “Troubling veins. What other woman would make such an observation? Do you know all about the pulse and beat of the heart?”
She stirred her soup. “A little bit. I dissected a sheep’s heart once.” She bit her lip to suppress a grin.
“You’re beaming! What other woman glows at the memory of dissection? What other has done that? Where’d you even procure a sheep’s heart? You—unexceptional? Hmph. Poppycock.”
She fiddled with her mug, turning it round and round on the weathered tabletop. “My knowledge is the product of sheer determination. It is not talent, merely… hardheadedness.”
He turned to the side, facing her briefly before huffing and hiding his legs under the table once more. He crossed his arms over his chest and sank into the chair. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not—”
“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it my job to ensure you understand every damn day how exceptional you are.”
She laughed, snorted. “I’d like to see you try.” But he’d already done a bang-up job of it. She glowed from the inside out.
“You will.” His eyes, green and blue and true as the earth itself, made her believe, then he stood, a rapid upward jolt that shook the table. “Stay here. I’ll see if… Mr. Gunner, did you say his name was? I’ll see if he has rooms available tonight. It’s late. Past Clarington’s appointed hour, and he’s the coward who hasn’t shown his face.” He snagged her valise from under the table and swept off across the tavern.
Sarah let him go, though she knew she shouldn’t. He wasn’t thinking right, and she had not the energy to make the correct decisions. They should keep to separate corners of the tavern. He should not be off to find them rooms. But—she yawned—resting the weight of her worry on his impeccable shoulders felt good. Right. Perfection itself. She’d not gone looking for a knight valiant to fight the needling voices inside her own head.
