the park. Wonder of wonders.
Lady Boudicea Vaughn, arm in arm with a man, laughing.
His mouth went dry and his heart surged in a series of uneven beats. He ducked into a doorway and watched the two of them
wander down the street and disappear into the busy yard of The Spoon and Lion.
Everything was going to be all right. The luck of the Irish might not be reliable, but today it was damn timely.
Gareth watched until Beau disappeared up the stairs, straining forward to catch a final glimpse of her ragged, muddy hem.
His. Every muddy, outrageous inch of her. His, if he could just reach Scotland.
By the time she reappeared in Mrs. Stops’s pink floral gown, the coach was hitched, the postboy was in the saddle, and Gareth
was pressing a vail into the hand of the stable boy responsible for caring for Monty until he could reclaim him. Beau dropped
her bag onto the ground beside her and shook out her skirts. They were a tad too short, and the gown was clearly a bit too
large, but all inall, she looked credible enough, like a country parson’s wife, a bit down about the heels but happy with her lot.
“Clean,” Beau said as he handed her into the coach. “Well, as clean as a basin of hot water and a change of clothing can make
me.”
Gareth tossed her bag onto the rear-facing seat and climbed in behind her, dragging the door shut as he did so. Before he’d
fully settled in, the coach sprang into motion. Beau gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her new hat across the coach. It
landed on top of her bag.
“Scotland,” she said, imbuing the word with almost mythic reverence.
“Scotland,” Gareth echoed back.
She curled toward him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Her simple thanks cut into him, through him, made his heart shrivel just a little where it lurked inside his chest. He kissed
the top of her head, choking back a dismissive reply. No thanks were due. Certainly not from her. He was getting everything
he’d ever wanted, though the cost when all was said and done might be more than either of them had bargained for.
Gareth wrapped an arm around her, and she mumbled sleepily, nuzzling her face against his chest like a sleepy puppy. The steady
beat of the horses’ hooves changed as they left the confines of the town, and the postboy increased their speed.
They hit a bump, and the coach bounced awkwardly, shaking Beau loose from his embrace and rousing them both from idyllic stupor.
She cursed under her breath and sat up.
“What did you say?”
Beau batted her eyes at him. “Just cursing this sorry, rutted excuse for a road.”
“Like a jack tar.”
She grinned, lashes skimming her checks in what he knew to be faux modesty. “I have been trailing after my brothers and all
their friends for close to twenty-two years.”
Gareth forced himself to smile back at her. She didn’t seem to have the least understanding of what their marriage was going
to mean to his friendship with her brother. Or maybe she did, and she—like him—was simply refusing to acknowledge it. The
inevitable estrangement wasn’t real until they voiced it.
Even if Leo understood that Gareth had acted in Beau’s best interests, he was unlikely to accept that there’d been no other
choice. It would still
feel
like a betrayal.
“No wool gathering,” Beau said, sliding about on the seat so that she was facing him. “If we must be awake, and it seems that
we must, then you’d best think of some way of keeping me entertained.”
Sandison’s jaw dropped, and he blinked at her, looking as stunned as he might have had she hit him upside the head with a
bottle, just as she’d planned for Nowlin. Beau rolled her lip between her teeth and waited.
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared as he straightened beside her. With no warning, he yanked her into his lap, his
mouth covering hers roughly, heat seeking heat, tongue enticing her to play.
His hand covered her breast, and
Lady Boudicea Vaughn, arm in arm with a man, laughing.
His mouth went dry and his heart surged in a series of uneven beats. He ducked into a doorway and watched the two of them
wander down the street and disappear into the busy yard of The Spoon and Lion.
Everything was going to be all right. The luck of the Irish might not be reliable, but today it was damn timely.
Gareth watched until Beau disappeared up the stairs, straining forward to catch a final glimpse of her ragged, muddy hem.
His. Every muddy, outrageous inch of her. His, if he could just reach Scotland.
By the time she reappeared in Mrs. Stops’s pink floral gown, the coach was hitched, the postboy was in the saddle, and Gareth
was pressing a vail into the hand of the stable boy responsible for caring for Monty until he could reclaim him. Beau dropped
her bag onto the ground beside her and shook out her skirts. They were a tad too short, and the gown was clearly a bit too
large, but all inall, she looked credible enough, like a country parson’s wife, a bit down about the heels but happy with her lot.
“Clean,” Beau said as he handed her into the coach. “Well, as clean as a basin of hot water and a change of clothing can make
me.”
Gareth tossed her bag onto the rear-facing seat and climbed in behind her, dragging the door shut as he did so. Before he’d
fully settled in, the coach sprang into motion. Beau gave an exaggerated sigh and tossed her new hat across the coach. It
landed on top of her bag.
“Scotland,” she said, imbuing the word with almost mythic reverence.
“Scotland,” Gareth echoed back.
She curled toward him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Her simple thanks cut into him, through him, made his heart shrivel just a little where it lurked inside his chest. He kissed
the top of her head, choking back a dismissive reply. No thanks were due. Certainly not from her. He was getting everything
he’d ever wanted, though the cost when all was said and done might be more than either of them had bargained for.
Gareth wrapped an arm around her, and she mumbled sleepily, nuzzling her face against his chest like a sleepy puppy. The steady
beat of the horses’ hooves changed as they left the confines of the town, and the postboy increased their speed.
They hit a bump, and the coach bounced awkwardly, shaking Beau loose from his embrace and rousing them both from idyllic stupor.
She cursed under her breath and sat up.
“What did you say?”
Beau batted her eyes at him. “Just cursing this sorry, rutted excuse for a road.”
“Like a jack tar.”
She grinned, lashes skimming her checks in what he knew to be faux modesty. “I have been trailing after my brothers and all
their friends for close to twenty-two years.”
Gareth forced himself to smile back at her. She didn’t seem to have the least understanding of what their marriage was going
to mean to his friendship with her brother. Or maybe she did, and she—like him—was simply refusing to acknowledge it. The
inevitable estrangement wasn’t real until they voiced it.
Even if Leo understood that Gareth had acted in Beau’s best interests, he was unlikely to accept that there’d been no other
choice. It would still
feel
like a betrayal.
“No wool gathering,” Beau said, sliding about on the seat so that she was facing him. “If we must be awake, and it seems that
we must, then you’d best think of some way of keeping me entertained.”
Sandison’s jaw dropped, and he blinked at her, looking as stunned as he might have had she hit him upside the head with a
bottle, just as she’d planned for Nowlin. Beau rolled her lip between her teeth and waited.
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared as he straightened beside her. With no warning, he yanked her into his lap, his
mouth covering hers roughly, heat seeking heat, tongue enticing her to play.
His hand covered her breast, and
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